I blanch. “I think I just threw up a little at that idea.”
Joyce chuckles, focusing on her work so that the only sound in the room is my writing playlist coming through the speakers.
I glare at the flurry of colorful stickynotes on the wall.Each piece of paper is a scene that’s meant to go in a particular act within the story. I’ve torn them up, rewritten and stuck them a hundred times over, and I’m not any closer to working this new book out.
I’ve written half of it, only to come to a grinding halt because something about the storyline doesn’t feel right. The characters have taken on a mind of their own, and the current plot structure doesn’t work for them.
There’s no time to back out of it, though. The editor is booked and paid for, and several contracts are relying on it being in its final form in a couple of weeks. Somehow, someway, this is going to have to pull together—and I needed it doneyesterday. I’ll just have to pull extra hours to get more words on paper—whenever the hell I figure out what those words are, that is.
If I fuck this up... then it’s back to living with my parents so I can afford to finish grad school.
“Mina,” Joyce says with a sigh. “Take a break. You’ve been going at it for hours. Go for a walk, or grab a drink or something.”
Fuck no. I have too much shit to do: work, cleaning, more work, more laundry.
I push my glasses up my nose. “Come with me?” What’s five minutes anyway? It’s not like I’ve written more than a sentence in the past two hours.
She holds up her tablet. “I’m almost three weeks behind on all my commissions, and I still haven’t even started rendering your cover. I barely have time to go to the bathroom.”
There goes my excuse to procrastinate.
Tugging on my sleeve, I chew the inside of my cheek. “I really don’t mind finding someone else to design my cover.”Not that I can afford it.“You don’t?—”
“Every client I lose makes my mother smile. That bitch doesn’t get to keep ruining my life.”
I grunt. At least one of us is proving their parents wrong. “Mom called yesterday and asked if I’m still making as little in sales as last month.”
She winces. “Mine asked me if I’m bored of my hobby yet.”
I blow out a breath. I’ve heard that one before.
It’s no surprise our moms are best friends.
“Are you still covering at the bar tonight?” I ask, sneaking a look at my phone. God, Leo looks good as my background.
Scowling, she nods. “Yay.”
“The things we do to keep a roof over our heads,” I mutter.
Joyce picks up shifts at a nearby bar every once in a while to get extra cash flow in case shit hits the fan. The last thing we want to do is go crawling back to our families and concede defeat. Because despite all the jabs and light degradation, we put up with it.
Our Filipino parents wanted us to stay far away from anything remotely artsy. Telling our parents to shove it where the sun don’t shine isn’t something that’s in our vocabulary. They’re far too religious to be remotely receptive to the type of shit I write, or the raunchy drawings Joyce does, and hiding it ended up impossible, so I’m fairly certain they’re praying for our downfall.
If either of our businesses fails, we’ll both be hearing a condescending “I told you so” and be pushed back toward the closest college.
Every interaction with them involves sitting in silence as they make subtle digs at us under the guise that they’re doing it in our best interest. Then we spend a week recovering from the trauma of their existence.
The silver lining? At least we’re riding our parents’ health insurance.
I should quit. I don’t think writing is for me.
The words are blurring into a garbled mess of black and white. Listening to music for inspiration, scrolling Pinterest, and watching videos on how to structure a book have not gotten meany closer to figuring out where to go from here. It’s not like this is my debut novel, but I think it’s time to accept that my parents were right: I’m not made to be an author.
It might bejustpaying the bills now, but it was a stupid idea to drop out of college to pursue writing. I was doing fine a year ago. Even better the year before. But every book that I’ve released seems to do worse than the last. This is my last chance.
In the past six hours, I’ve only managed to get down eight hundred words that I’ll probably delete tomorrow, andfuck,my uterus might kill me before I get the chance.Leaning my elbows on the desk, I massage my temples, fighting the urge to see if Leo or any of his friends has posted something about tonight’s major win. They’re probably out celebrating. He’s probably finding the closest girl to take her back to his?—
My phone vibrates on the desk.
