Page 42 of Joy to Noel
“It’s . . . crawling, I guess, as much as I wish it were running,” I confess. “The clients I’ve worked with so far have been wonderful. They’ve written positive testimonials that I’ve posted on social media and the website, but I’m still waiting for a burst of momentum. I don’t know why I thought that I could suddenly have a thriving independent business on my hands when the real-world job I had didn’t think I was good enough. Delusions, I suppose.”
“Stop it, MJ,” Liam practically snaps. “Negative self-talk isn’t going to get you anywhere. You’re good at your job, period. Keep working every avenue to connect with potential clients, but don’t sell your abilities short in your mind. Clients want to hire someone who’s confident in the value they bring to the table—focus on the value you bring.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Suits! You with all the job security in the world since there are always problems to fix. You make it sound so simple—but it’s not!” I snap back. “It’s not like I’m not trying.”
“Maybe you could try harder if you weren’t spending your time working at a coffee shop,” Liam says. “Maybe you could up the intensity of going after clients if your focus wasn’t divided. You shouldtake advantage of this period of time having fewer expenses to double down your efforts on MJE.”
As my blood pressure rises, a tremor slips into my voice. “Iamtrying with MJE. The coffee shop is simply a temporary solution to be able to tuck some money into savings. It’s the more responsible choice.”
“You already made the riskier choice when you decided to start your own business. Second-guessing at this stage of a start-up is a death knell,” Liam says, leaning forward. Movement under the table catches my eye, and I glance down to see Hamlet anxiously weaving back and forth around Liam’s ankles.
“Trust me, I’mwell awarethat I made a risky decision. That’s not the point,” I respond icily. My palms are firmly planted on the table as I glower at Liam—if only to stop them from trembling.
“You want to know the point?” Liam asks, though it’s not really a question. He leans back in his chair, casually crossing his arms. “The point is that I think you’re hedging your bets in case MJE fails. But if you keep doing that, it’s going to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m telling you to put all your chips on the table if you really want to succeed.”
He says it so coolly, so matter-of-factly, like he didn’t just gut me entirely with his honest assessment. I guess this is the diagnostic specialist who tells people what they don’t want to hear. The one with terrible bedside manner.
I don’t know what to say that won’t lead to a breakdown of tears or an outburst of rage. So I simply mumble, “Noted.”
Gathering my fork and napkin onto my plate, I mechanically scrape my leftover pasta into the trash, rinse the plate, and place it in the dishwasher. As I turn in the direction of my room, I call over my shoulder, “When you’re done eating, put whatever pasta is left in the fridge. I’ll come wash the dishes after I edit a couple of chapters.”
I hear Liam’s deep sigh. “Madison . . . come back. Please?”
“I’m gonna go focus on not failing, okay?” I announce without looking back.
Resisting the urge to slam my bedroom door like a petulant teenager, I pull it shut behind me. My body shakes with the anger I’m working so hard to suppress.
If I’m really honest, it’s probably less anger and more fear. Fear that Liam is spot on with his diagnosis. Fear that I reallywillfail because I’m too afraid to put all my eggs in this basket. Fear that I’m not doing the right things to make this workbecauseI’m afraid.
Fear that this was never the right thing in the first place.
Why did I let Clara talk me into this? Why didn’t I just stay in KC and search for jobs? Why did I let her convince me to come down here and go out on such a precarious limb? Clara was always the one with big dreams, not me. I just wanted to keep my head down and keep doing good work. Why was that too much to ask out of life?
Why did I let Clara convince me that was toolittleto ask out of life?
Plopping down at my desk, I open up the manuscript I’m editing and half-heartedly read a few sentences. Pausing to rub my eyes, I look around my room.
Nothing about the decor is what I would have chosen for myself, especially the old-fashioned quilt on the bed. The furniture looks like something passed down from a great-great grandmother—meaning they may very well be sentimental pieces for the homeowners. But it’s hardly an inspiring atmosphere for my jumbled thoughts.
I miss the cozy ambience of my tiny cabin.I try to turn my attention back to my laptop, but it’s hard when I’m feeling ragey and uninspired.
I miss the Christmas lights,I think.Darn you, Clara Jane Noel.
ME
Never thought the day would come that I admit this, but I think I need some Christmas magic back.
CLARA
You have come to the right place, my friend.
ME
Duh.
Thrifting trip to Bentonville tomorrow? I’m not working at Becky’s. And I’m way ahead on the manuscript I’m editing. Can you take a little writing break?
