Page 28 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I sigh and slump into a chair. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’ve spent the last week and a half on that craft of writing book, and I understand what it’s telling me, but it’s not helping at all.”
“Well you’ve only just begun,” Mom says. “Maybe it takes practice. I know you’ve written short stories since you were in middle school, but a whole novel is a different beast. Be patient with yourself. Katy and I both know how talented you are. It’ll come together.”
“That’s the problem. It isn’t the craft of writing. It’s…the story itself.” I poke at the box in front of me. “You know when you have a sixth sense about something? I feel that way about these vignettes. There’s a reason I wrote all of them. Like, there’s some way to stitch them together into a single, cohesive story. I just don’t know what the answer is.”
“They’re historical, right?” Mom asks. “How about a time travel novel?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. You know I love sci-fi, but this doesn’t feel like that kind of book to me.”
“Oooh!” Katy leans into the camera. “What about an ancient witch’s recipe for a love potion that’s passed down through the ages? Maybe your vignettes are what happens whenever a couple gets their hands on the witchy elixir.”
I make a noncommittal noise. I haven’t been an aspiring novelist for long, but I have a feeling this happens a lot: well-meaning friends and family trying to brainstorm for them, but coming up way short of the mark.
“Or perhaps,” Mom says, “you’re overthinking it. You’re isolating yourself to write, but you’re not taking advantage of what’s around you.”
“The arctic weather?” I say sarcastically.
“No, sweetheart. You know I believe that everything happens for a reason. Why did you end up in Alaska? Perhaps your answer is out there”—she points offscreen—“instead of in your head.”
“Maybe.” But I smile, because even though Mom’s and Katy’s ideas didn’t help, I appreciate them trying.
My three-year-old nephew, Trevor, jogs into view next to Katy. I start waving emphatically at him, because he is my favorite kid ever. He doesn’t notice me, though.
“Mama?” he says to Katy. “I bring booger for you.” He holds it out like a treasure he’s mined just for her.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Wow, thanks, buddy. But you know what? You’ve given Mama so many boogers already. I think Daddy needs one. You want to go give it to him instead?”
Trevor studies the booger on his finger, as if determining whether the quality of this particular prize would suit his dad.
“You no want it?” he asks Katy, puzzled. “Is a good one.”
“Law of diminishing returns, bud. Tell Daddy that’s why I’m sending it to him. He’s more booger-deprived than I am.”
Trevor looks skeptically at her, then wanders off. In the background, we hear him shouting, “Dada? Mama says this boogie for you because law mimishing return.”
Mom and I burst into laughter.
Katy smirks. “I love that kid, but I amreallylooking forward to a few weeks in Amsterdam and Cannes with you, Hel. I think I’ll pass out from shock when a waiter comes over, serving something other than boogers. So get that novel done, okay? I want to live it up in Europe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, still laughing over sweet little Trevor. “Anyway, I should probably go. I have to process this box of new books that came in.”
“We love you very much,” Mom says. “Call us tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
We exchange air kisses and hang up. The happy afterglow from talking to Mom and Katy lingers like a rosy cumulus cloud around me, and I tackle the box with vigor.
Processing the new shipment is pretty straightforward. I find the order on Angela’s computer and mark it as received, then set the books into two piles: for the shelves or for a specific customer. If it’s the latter, I print out the invoice and wrap it around the book with a rubber band, then write the customer’s last name along the spine—where the invoice covers it, not on the book itself—in Sharpie in all caps.
I get through the box quickly. It’s seven o’clock when I have one book left, perfect timing for the end of my shift.
My stomach flips.
The novel isThe First Fifteen Lives of Harry August.Ordered by Sebastien.
My hands shake as I wrap the invoice around the book and write his last name along the spine.
M O N T A G U E.
