Page 65 of Is This for Real?
“Did you get enough material for your book?” he asks.
“Yes.” All the bewildering emotions. Now being deciphered on the page. If I dared showing that much of myself. “I got more than I expected.” And now I’m worried it invades Rory’s privacy.
I get out of the cab.
“See you soon?” I ask from outside.
Rory leans over across the seats and says, “Penelope?”
A car honks behind us. It can’t pass.
“Friday? I know you’re on deadline, but maybe we can hang out on Friday?” he asks. “Are there any places you need to research for your book? Unless you have your book club meeting on Friday.”
I should say no. I’m already pressed for time. But maybe it’s good to keep all these confused emotions going while I’m revising. The car honks again.
“My writers’ critique group is on Thursday this week because Esther is going to a wedding this weekend. Friday works. I need something romantic they can do in New York,” I say.
It’s like we both know we shouldn’t date, and yet we can’t stop seeing each other.
“I’m on it,” Rory says, smiling.
Chapter twenty
ThedevelopmentaleditorIhiredhatesthe opening scene ofMidnight Masquerade.Oof.I sit back as I read her critique. And I’m thankful that I’m not hearing this in person so she can’t see my face falling. She says I can’t start out with my protagonist practicing to steal a painting with her friend because she comes across as an unlikable thief. She suggests I demonstrate her work ethic by showing her working to put together an art exhibit in the first scene.
I don’t agree. But it has been getting rejected by agents so she could be right.
I stare at my first rejection on the wall. Discouragement is taking hold like a vine creeping up a house.Midnight Masqueradeis in much better shape thanFake Dating Folly. I shake my head, stand, push my chair in under my desk, and decide to play by creating a mini scene. Piper is reading her novel at a local bookstore event, and Rob is in the front row. At least I can make my dreams come true in mini.
I should just put this critique to the side and continue revisingFake Dating Folly, but the critique is rolling around in my brain. Maybe I’ll learn something if I follow her recommendation. The rest of her advice is good, and I can use it as I edit.
Enough procrastinating. I rewrite the beginning ofMidnight Masquerade. My protagonist is at the office, running around, helping her boss to get ready for an art exhibit. Will they make the 5 p.m. deadline? When they do, I feel a sense of relief—but it’s not a sexy hook. If I started a book where the protagonist was in an office collating and scanning an exhibit catalogue, I’d put it down. My gut feeling is that this does not work. I email my new opening chapter to my writing critique group for feedback Thursday night, and I return to revisingFake Dating Folly.
I am the last to arrive at our critique group meeting. My revised chapter is up first.
“It doesn’t work for me. It’s well written, but I wasn’t riveted,” Maria says.
I flinch. That’s the kiss-of-death criticism. I should have been happy with light and fluffy. Instead of light and fluffy pancakes, I’ve cooked up hard rocks that should be thrown into the garbage.
“I think it’s just this new chapter. I just couldn’t get into it. But I liked the original chapter—and the book,” Aarav says. Esther agrees that she likes the original version of the chapter better, but I made this new chapter more amusing than she expected.
It’s back to my previous first chapter. I’ll delete some dialogue and tighten it up. We discuss the rest of the chapter submissions. Esther and I leave the meeting together.
“How’sFake Dating Follycoming along?” Esther asks.
“It’s complete crap.”
“We all think that. Did you finish a draft?”
“I’m on my second draft.”
“I find it’s only my third draft when it all comes together,” she says.
I sigh. “Let’s hope.”
I bike home.
Zelda and our neighbor Miranda are sitting on the couch, both in sweats, and eating ice cream out of the pint. I drop my bag on the floor. The apartment feels empty without any of our dog guests. Goldie is curled up on the couch, purring.
