Page 24 of The Now in Forever
“Thanks.” Ed sets down his computer and grabs some coffee and the rest of the eggs. My appetite has suddenly vanished after talking to Robin. Out the window, the tall yellow grass blows in the wind. What is wrong with me? Robin is my best friend. I should be happy that she is happy. Not prophesying her relationship's eventual end.And my grandparents found true love. Maybe Nathan and Robin did too.
“Hattie? Earth to Hattie.”
I spin around. “Yeah?”
“You alright?”
“I was just lost in thought.” I sit down at the table with my coffee and open my laptop. “Let’s get started. Who should go first?”
Ed takes in a large deliberate breath and says, “I was wondering…well, there’s something…”
My stomach drops.
Then Ed smiles. “Never mind. It can wait. Let’s do mine first. Rip the Band-Aid off.”
Sifting through my notes for Ed, I start with what’s working. A lot of it is, so that takes a while. Honestly, if he wants to write a literary fiction novel, what he already has is excellent. But if he wants his book to have more commercial appeal, I have some thoughts on areas that could have more propulsion of the plot.
Then it’s Ed’s turn to give me feedback. “The mystery itself is great. I have no idea who the killer is. And you have some nice lines in there.”
He stops and takes a sip of coffee, and I brace myself for the “but.”
“The writing needs work on a line level in some places.”
I open my mouth to say something, which is technically against our rules—we agreed to listen completely and not get defensive—but he holds up a hand to stop me. “I know you’re probably not to that point in the draft yet, and that’s totally cool. Just mentioning it. I also think…” He moves his leftover eggs around on his plate, the dried-out yellow blobs making me queasy, or is it waiting for the rest of his critique? “Well, the story is told linearly. Does it need to be? Maybe you could get more tension with a little more back and forth, maybe some creative editing. Like, did you ever read that one where the story is told backwards? I’m not saying do that, but it needs something.”
It needs something, but backwards? I’m not Megan Miranda.
“And one last note.” He checks his notebook as if having to decipher it from his chicken scratch. With his eyes still on his paper, hesays, “It seems like maybe the main character is a stand-in for you.” His voice trails off at the end of the sentence. Then, in full volume, he says, “I think that’s about it. Do you have any questions?”
A frown settles on my face like quick dry cement. “Could you say that last part again?”
He sighs, a world-weary, I-knew-this-was-coming kind of sigh, that makes me want to flip this table in a Hulk-filled rage. “The main character is obviously you. And that could be problematic.”
“How? How is she me?”
Ed sits back a little in his chair, crossing his leg, bringing his ankle to his knee. He starts ticking things off on his fingers. “Let’s see… Her name is Hallie. She has brown hair and robin’s egg blue eyes. She’s thoughtful, observant, a rule follower, and she’s a vegan.” He puts his hand down. “Should I go on?”
How dare he presume to know me? He doesn’t even remember our day together. So, he only knows me from a signing where he barely said two words to me and the past three days. “I’m not vegan. You just watched me eat eggs.”
He sighs. “Aren’t you a vegetarian?”
I stand, closing my laptop. “What difference does it make?”
Ed closes his notebook and looks at me with a soft expression. “It’s your book. You can write it however you like. I’m only saying when we put ourselves into the book, we might not be able to go deep enough to write a fully formed character. Characters need flaws and pain and depth. And sometimes when youarethe main character, well, we end up writing what we wish we were. On top of that, we lose all objectivity when it comes to edits. I can’t tell you to change parts of Hallie, because it would be like me saying there’s something wrong withyou.”
What he’s saying makes sense, and in all honesty, I hadn’t intended to write myself into the book. My face is hot. It’s probably beet red. It’s such a rookie mistake, and I’ve been writing for…too long to admit. “I need some air.”
Ed is clicking at the keys on his laptop. “I sent you the rest of my notes. Look at them when you’re ready.”
I nod.
“Hattie. I liked the story.”
His words bounce off me, a Super Ball on hard concrete.
Seizing my tote bag, I head out the door, walking toward the main road to see other people, hear other voices than Ed’s negative comments echoing in my brain over and over.
Critiques are the worst. I’d thought over the years, with various writing groups, I’d gotten better, but this one was a special kind of torture. Why should what Ed thinks matter so much? Is it because I know he’s right?
