Page 85 of Meet Me Back Here

i promise

No matter how much I try to put it out of my mind, I hate that the last day of this workshop is clouded by the call I had yesterday. I’ve been trying for over a year. I just don’t have another thriller in me. Not right now. And more importantly, I don’t want to write one. This is the story that came out of me.

I didn’t realize how disappointing it would feel to realize my team might not be as optimistic about its future. Of course, that’s not exactly what Lori said, but that’s what it feels like. I was finally feeling good about writing after struggling so long, and now I’m doubting myself again.

Maybe nobody will want a romance from Mia Lane.

As I listen to each student in the workshop present their blurbs, I feel a little envious of them, and naive as it is, I hope nobody ever pushes expectations on them. I hope they can write for the joy of it as long as they want to.

Today, I focus on them and briefly forget my own writing drama. It feels good to encourage them, and I’m thankful at least this workshop went well. I’d never forgive myself if I came here and let anybody down.

Even though it’s the last day, we all stay late, sharing cupcakes and exchanging contact information. It’s like none of us want to leave.

“My email is always open,” I promise, and before I know it, I’m packing up my things in an empty room.

When a light knock sounds from the doorway, I expect to find Forrest, but Professor Rupert—Jason—is standing there instead. My confusion must show on my face because he smiles as he walks toward me.

“I asked Forrest if I could borrow you for a bit before he whisks you away,” Jason explains. He pulls out a chair at one of the group tables and offers it to me before sitting in the one beside it.

He looks pleased, so I’m more curious than nervous. We hadn’t specifically planned another meeting, but a debrief post-workshop makes sense.

“How did things go?” he asks once we’re both settled.

“Hopefully the students think so too, but I’d say this was an amazing week. You have some incredible writers here,” I say truthfully.

He glows with pride. “I agree. The students will submit formal, anonymous course reviews, but some have already reached out during the week to express how much they enjoyed working with you.”

Now it’s my turn to be proud. I thought I did well, but the reassurance feels good, especially when writing feels like it currently has no assurances at all.

“Thank you. The feeling is mutual,” I say.

Professor Rupert has the same glint in his eye that he did when he asked me to transfer to DCU all those years ago, and I suddenly feel like he’s about to drop something just as big on me once more. He rests his forearms on the table and laces his fingers together. I don’t even have time to lean back before he strikes.

“I’d like to offer you a job,” he says.

I was not expecting that. I’m still processing this simple sentence when he continues.

“I’ve recently had a couple of professors in the department announce their retirements, and one was a surprise, so we weren’t prepared with a replacement for her classes. I’ve already spoken with the powers that be about using this workshop as a trial period for you, and I must say, we’ve been very impressed,” Jason explains, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

How did they know how things went?

Professor Rupert answers that as he continues, “I apologize for the subversive tactics, but I had a few of our senior students in the workshop reporting back to us daily regarding your management of the classroom and the material. It turns out I didn’t need to enlist their help. When I said some students have reached out to sing your praises, I meant every single student in this workshop has approached me or reached out to one of their other professors in the department during the week to tell us how much they’ve been learning from you.”

Suddenly, I’m a nineteen-year-old student again, left speechless by a declaration from this professor.

History really does repeat itself, doesn’t it?

“Thank you, sir, but I’m not a teacher. I’m a writer,” I blurt while a thousand scenarios fly through my mind.

“And an excellent one at that, but I can’t help but notice it’s been a while since you’ve released a book. And there haven’t been any announcements for your next book either.” He says it without judgment or cruelty, but the stab burns like acid, nonetheless.

I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him I’m working on another book, but am I? Or am I just driving my own future into the ground?

“There have been some recent hiccups,” I say.

“Maybe you just need a change of pace to get inspired again. We’re willing to be flexible with your teaching commitment because nobody wants you to write more books more than I do.” Jason smiles. “But I won’t pretend I’m not selfish too. I think you can help shape countless writers, and I want you in this department. You’re personable, have real industry experience, and you have a way with words that is difficult to find. I could hire somebody with every education degree on the planet, but I couldn’t teach them what you have. However, I can teach you about curriculum requirements, grading techniques, and how to stay awake during department meetings.”

“I’ve never thought about teaching,” I admitted. Once I found writing, it’s all I ever wanted to do. But I can’t help but feel like it’s let me down recently. It’s very possible that I’ll be out of a job in a few weeks, and potentially finding it very difficult to get another publisher to take a chance on me.