Page 13 of Writing Mr. Right

There isn’t anything necessarilywrongwith the question. All writers should be prepared to answer it, because it’s literally what they do. But I’ve always been a little embarrassed whenever someone I don’t know finds out I’m a writer (or hell, even when someone Idoknow finds out). One, because I have nothing to show for it, and two, because people judge you based on what you write about. It’s like whatever genreyou write in determines your legitimacy. Horror and thriller writers are revered; they’re applauded for being able to think of such great plot twists and for their super tight narration. People regard nonfiction writers as extremely intellectual; after all, you’re writing about real facts, so a lot of research goes into the process. Fantasy writers have big brains—how else could they create such rich worlds that leap off the page?

But when people find out I write romance, that’s when the admiration changes. You get “Ohh, you’re aromancewriter?” with wriggling brows and hushed tones, as if you’re sharing a dirty secret. People see what we write as easy, as books only women enjoy, but what’s wrong with that? It’s like our genre loses its status because it’s something women like to read. And most of the time, writing romance requires deep emotional work that not everyone can do.

I also want to keep my writing life separate from my work life, at least until I become published someday. When I tell people I’m a writer and they ask if they can buy my book at a store, I don’t want to have to awkwardly tell them they can’t. I take a long drink of water. “I…uhh…” I stammer. I wipe at a few droplets of water that landed on my lip. “I write…romance novels.”

“Ooh,” Sofia coos, lifting her brows to her hairline. “I love romance novels! Have you read any of Emily Henry’s stuff?”

Surprise widens my eyes. “You read Emily Henry?”

“What self-proclaimed romance fanhasn’tread Emily Henry?” Faye chimes in. “She has such a way of making everything feel so real, which is what I love in my romance novels.”

“Forget realism.” Stella waves a hand in dismissal. “I love my romance novels with some kind of fantastical element. Have you readThe Dead Romanticsby Ashley Poston?” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “I love ghost romances. It’s such good angst.”

Huh. I never would have guessed the hardworking, suit-wearing, no-nonsense women I work with would be such big romance fans. But I guess because I don’t know them at all.

“What kind of romance do you write, Ziya?” Faye asks, bringing my attention back to her.

“Oh, uh…” I bite my lower lip. My gaze briefly flickers over to Aashiq, who gives me an encouraging nod, and even though my anger at him is so high it’s completely busted the meter, my back straightens. “I write small-town romance.”

“Like Hallmark vibes?” Sofia asks, and when I nod, she says, “Oh, Iloveme a good Hallmark movie. They’re all the same but it only adds to their charm. My favorites are when they’re about royals at Christmas, because who doesn’t love that?”

“Will you let us read some of your stuff?” Stella asks.

Oh, God, no.That’s thesecondquestion all writers dread. “I’m not published or anything,” I quickly say. “I have like, half-written stories and stories that need to be rewritten stored on my cloud. But I don’t share them with anyone.” I don’t tell them about Emily reading everything in case they think it means I’m open to sharing. “I’m a private creative. You know, like how some painters don’t let people see their work until it’s completely done.”

They all deflate a touch, but then Sofia says, “Oh, that’s okay. I’m excited to read something once you’re published.” She leans forward. “By the way, some of us at the firm have recently started our own little book club. We primarily read romance books, but sometimes we read other genres if they have a strong romance element. You should totally join us.”

This is not where I expected this conversation to go. “Uh, yeah, sounds fun.”

“Great!” Sofia says, and then thankfully, the food arrives, and everyone busies themselves with starting in on their meals. Then the conversation shifts to other things.

My heartbeat still races at an irregular speed, though. That wasn’t as awful as I expected, but it was still startling. I send Aashiq mini glares throughout the rest of lunch, but he either ignores me or can’t tell I’m mentally clawing at his face. He’stoo busy building an elaborate backstory for himself to explain his presence at the firm, which apparently involves him dropping out of three different universities before deciding he wanted to work in a law office. It also involves an accidental meeting with Rosé from Blackpink while walking an Upper East Side widow’s dog.

Thankfully, the hour ends quickly, and when we’re all done eating, Aashiq stands up. He reaches into his pocket and produces a sleek black card. “You all can head on back to the office. I got this.”

My eyes widen. “You can’t pay for everyone,” I blurt. How the hell does he have money?

“Of course I can,” he assures me. “We’re celebrating your birthday, after all.”

The others don’t have the same reservations as I do—they all cheerily grab their leftovers and rise to their feet. “Thanks, Aashiq!” Faye says as she shrugs on her coat. “We’ll definitely treat you next time we go out for lunch, or if you ever join us for dinner sometime.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Aashiq says as he heads over to the counter to pay.

While Faye, Stella, and Sofia move to the exit, I grab my purse and jacket and follow Aashiq. “How are you going to pay for everything?” I ask.

Aashiq smirks, then holds up the credit card. “With this baby. All the humans I see walking around have one of these.”

“All of those humans are probably also in severe debt because they don’t have the money to pay off those cards,” I point out. “Where are you going to get the money to pay for the card?”

He quirks a brow. “Uh, I’m the personification of your writing muse, and you’re wondering where I’m getting money from?”

I curl my tongue. “Fair enough.”

As Aashiq pays, I suddenly remember I didn’t tell any of the other women not to tell anyone else in the office I’m a writer.It’s not like I think they’re going to go around gossiping about it, but I didn’t even wantthemto know. Writing, in a lot of cases, is a private thing.

The more I think about it, the more my blood heats up. Aashiq just went and told the people I work with something he has to know is personal to me. There’s no way he can’t know, because according to him, he’s a part of me. And if he really is part of me, then he knows I don’t tell people I’m a writer.

What would a main character do? If the protagonist of the story was a girl, then she’d let it go. She wouldn’t get angry or hold a grudge or berate another character, because doing so would make her unlikable, and being unlikable is the worst thing a main character can be. That is, if your main character is a girl. A male main character is allowed to be snarky, scornful, the antihero. But if a female character is at all abrasive, she’s suddenly unrelatable, and no one wants to read a story where they can’t relate to the vehicle of the story.

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