Page 7 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Does he even know how much I’ve sacrificed for this experience?

I sit here stiff as a board while his attention fixes wholly upon his phone. His frown is growing as he swipes down an email. A moment later, he rubs his chin.

I stand.

What else is there to do?

My head is pounding, my legs are numb, as I take the walk of shame between tables toward the exit doors.

Faces glance up in midconversation as I pass, people curious to scan my eyes for the tears. What happened with her? Why is she leaving so early? Ohhhh, she met with HIM? A year-one conferee having a go at Jack Sterling? I wouldn’t be caught dead wasting an appointment on him. Rookie.

I can hear their thoughts. My face is hot as I try to ignore them all.

I didn’t have a choice! I want to cry out. He was the only one left!

I spent six hours yesterday in the appointment wait line, ignoring classes just to hope to snag an extra appointment beyond the three that were given me at the start of the conference.

Three appointments in exchange for the thousands of dollars at this conference felt unreasonable.

I had spent all this money. I had spent every waking moment of the past two years writing this story, ever since it came to my attention that my workplace and home, The Bridge Refugee and Immigration Services, was at risk of losing its funding and going under. Ever since I hatched the crazy plan that writing was something I could do. Write the story. Tell the story. Support The Bridge with the profit. Keep not only my ESL job but the place that was my community, my family’s community.

Really, just my family.

It was a wild dream, but it was our last hope.

I had tried getting newspaper outlets to take up interest in saving the town’s beloved program.

I had tried organizing fundraising festivals full of bouncy houses and balloons.

I had applied for more grants than my aching hand could handle writing.

I’d tried everything. But this.

Maybe it was a pipe dream. Girl writes book loosely about her grandmother founding this beloved community center, and it raises the awareness of just the right people who secure it forever. Maybe it was ridiculous. But the fact is, those stories do exist. Books do become bestsellers and go on to raise awareness for great things. Encourage recycling. Save trees. Fund foundations rescuing people from human trafficking. Remind people that humanity can do wonderful, incredible things when we come together. Books can do that.

A few select books do break out big.

Everybody thinks the lottery is crazy except for the one person who wins it.

Maybe, just maybe, it is my time to win this.

So I sat down one particularly helpless-feeling night and did the only thing I felt I could do. I wrote.

And wrote.

And wrote.

And before long, nobody could stop me from writing.

It began from a mission and ran on the steam of passion. Turns out, the only thing I love more than reading is writing. I love writing. I love telling stories.

I love shaping words and worlds within my story that bend to the dreams and hopes I wish the world existed on. I love that in a world so uncontrollable, I write so that the guy gets the girl in the end. The dog finds his family. The mother never dies.

So forgive me if yesterday, after being rejected from the third and last agent on my list, I rejected the upbeat conference speaker’s advice to just “wait until next year’s conference to pitch and instead make the most of those marketing workshops!” and joined the group of conference vultures.

The conference vultures.

It’s a thing.