She laughed. “Something like that. You should have seen me a couple of weeks ago. I had two black eyes.”
“Sweet. Any pictures?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Next time.”
“Absolutely.”
She didn’t bother pointing out the incongruity of a man pushing sixty saying things likesweetor referring to his wife ofnearly forty years as hisbae, but Freddy was his own man. He’d retired from years of driving a big rig and had set his mind on selling a rom-com to Netflix. He’d surprised everyone in their critique group with his gift for funny and charming dialogue, but his plotting skills were shaky at best. Still, he was getting better, and that was the whole point of showing up.
Their biweekly sessions were run by Ella, a former schoolteacher who simply couldn’t let go of the whole student–teacher thing. She’d sold a couple of screenplays to Netflix, several to the Hallmark Channel and few more to Hulu. Even though she had to be busy with her own career, she’d started this critique group about three years ago. Victoria had heard about it from a friend of a friend and had applied. In addition to a writing sample, she’d had to interview for the spot and then had been on probation for two months.
To stay in the group, she had to pay the biweekly dues of forty-five dollars, ten of which went to the rental of the classroom in the community center. She had to read and critique the material sent out before every meeting, returning it to the author by the deadline, as well as being physically present for at least one of the meetings each month. She’d gotten a pass on the last session, what with being thrown out of a truck and all.
Now as she looked around at her friends and colleagues, she realized that even though she hadn’t sent pages of her own, she was glad to be back with other writers. She needed a couple of hours of conversation about character development and pacing to get herself out of her head.
Ella arrived right on time. She swept into the room with the authority of someone used to facing a slightly hostile crowd—her former teaching gig had been as a middle school math teacher. She was tall, gaunt and dressed in oversize, boxy Eileen Fisher separates. Bright red reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Her gaze settled on Victoria and her normally stern expression softened.
“You made it. Welcome back. How are you doing with all that’s going on?”
Victoria stared at her, unsure how her writing teacher knew about the clusterfuck that was her life. One beat later, she realized Ella was talking about her injuries from the accident, not the fact that had the Shannon adoption gone through, her biological mother would have probably abandoned her at the closest fire station and walked away without looking back.
“I’m good,” Victoria said cheerfully. “Better every day.”
“I’m glad.” She took one of the remaining empty desks and began to pull printed pages out of her tote. “All right, everyone. Excellent work this week.”
She handed the stack of pages to the person on her left. They searched for their submission and passed on the rest. As the critiques were distributed, laptops were booted. Victoria opened that week’s file with all her critiques listed by classmate’s name.
“Who wants to go first?” Ella asked, slipping on her reading glasses as she sorted through her copy of her critiques.
Freddy raised his hand. “I will.”
Victoria scrolled down to his pages and scanned her notes. “You nailed the dialogue,” she said. “The scene was funny and emotional at the same time.” She hesitated, then added, “But your scenes always are. Did you ever do the plotting exercises? I have no sense of story arc. Meagan still doesn’t have a conflict, and I wish she was a little less happy all the time.”
“I agree,” another student said. “All that happiness is sus, if you ask me.”
“Susas insuspicious?” Freddy confirmed happily, making a note on his computer.
“Uh-oh,” Ollie whispered to Victoria. “Now Freddy has more slang to use on us.”
Ella slipped off her glasses and looked at him. “I have to agree with Victoria. Every scene is charming, Freddy, but there is asameness to them. Characters have to start in one place and end up somewhere else. Your story needs turning points.”
“And conflict,” Ollie said, pointing at him. “You don’t like conflict in your life, so you don’t put in your work.”
Freddy shifted in his seat. “I can deal with conflict.”
“We’re not talking about Freddy,” Ella said, her voice hinting at stern. “This is about his work.” She smiled at him. “Next time, let’s see a scene with some tension. We all know you’re brilliant at the engaging, falling-in-love parts of the story, along with the meet-cute. But you need more if you want to sell this project.”
They moved on to the next person. Everyone who had submitted and was attending that day would get an in-person critique from Ella and anyone else who wanted to comment, in addition to the written responses. Sometimes the sessions could feel brutal, but Victoria always learned something—especially when her own work wasn’t up to par. Sometimes it was tough not to get defensive because the writing was so personal. But while she’d been comfortable getting her first stunt job through her father’s connections, she wanted her screenwriting career to be different. If she was going to sell, she wanted to do it on her own—because she had talent and had come up with a great project, and not because of who her father was and how much he loved her.
“This breaks my heart,” Shannon said as she carefully dug out the roots of a peony plant. They were flourishing in their current location, much to the chagrin of the unsuspecting homeowner.
“Try not to think about it as plant death,” Aaron told her as he moved the wheelbarrow closer to where she was kneeling on the ground. “We’re helping out a customer. They were going crazy with the ants.” He flinched. “I hate that she was crying when she called me.”
“I know, but the tears had nothing to do with you. We’re fixing the problem. That will make her feel better.”
Aaron had texted, asking for help digging out a long bed of the peonies, planted right next to the house. Unfortunately, the plant attracted ants. Lots of ants. The insects had found their way into the house and, once there, refused to leave. The newly divorced, single mom had already been overwhelmed by everything that was happening in her life, and the ants had been the last straw. When the exterminator had told her what was drawing the ants to her house, she’d called Aaron and begged for help.
