Chapter 63
Friday night came. Sarah peeked over at Charles. He sat with his legs stretched out on her sofa, typing on his laptop. She grinned. Was this the life of writers in a relationship together? In the past, she’d sometimes wondered how that would work. If it would work. Images of many years doing the same thing flickered through her mind like a montage.
She frowned and shook the pictures free.
Charles was the only professional writer between them. Sure, she had her regular column, and was paid a modest sum for her contribution, but it was not the same as being an author who sold hundreds of thousands of books over the life of their career.
A career as an author.
What a fantastic thought. She nibbled the inside of her mouth in a nervous gesture. Being an author had seemed like a pipe dream for so long. But now . . . it was possible.
Or was it?
This could all be a fluke? What evidence supported the theory she could be a full-time author? In seven years, she’d managed to finish a total of one manuscript. Of course, she’d started, and stopped, dozens over the years, all of which lay in marked folders in a plastic container under her bed. The first batch remained unfinished due to the knowledge of manuscript formatting and plot structure she’d lacked as a teenager. She’d attended workshops and read books to remedy those flaws.
Then she’d met Jacques.
She remembered the courage it had taken to tell him about her secret hopes. She’d shown him a sample of her work. After a long silence, he’d lowered the pages and shot such an intense look at her she’d felt like she would burn on the spot.
You’re not smart enough to be a writer, Sarah.
That had been his comment. Five years of similar remarks followed.
She’d set aside her writing dream for good . . . at least, that’s what she’d thought at the time.
A few months after leaving Jacques, she’d found herself picking up a sheet of paper and pen and jotting something down. It wasn’t until she’d read over the absentminded note that she understood what it was: the kernel of a story. Six months later, the final draft was complete.
Then she’d met Paul.
His discouragement hadn’t been as overt and mean-spirited as Jacques’s. He’d never come out and said she was too dumb to be a writer, but his actions––interrupting her whenever she’d tried to set aside time to write because it was “just a hobby” and taking up their “couple time,” telling her she shouldn’t enter the mentorship because her work “wasn’t of a high enough caliber and she was setting herself up for disappointment”––had shown her those were his thoughts. She deserved a partner who supported and believed in her. Neither of them had.
Her parents, Amy, and Mark had encouraged her every day for a week to enter the Joan Morgan mentorship. She’d entered purely to get them all to stop nagging. When Paul’s reaction had been unenthusiastic, on top of his other unsupportive behavior, proving once and for all his caring act had been just that—an act—she’d dumped him on the spot.
A month later, she’d received an unexpected phone call that had brought her to this exact moment. Sitting with Charles Morgan, working together on a Joan Morgan book, and pondering whether she could ever be a full-time author.
Taking her by surprise, Charles asked, “Are you stuck on something?”
“You could say that.”
He lifted the computer from his lap and walked to her. “What is it?”
“It’s not the manuscript. It’s . . . my future as an author.”
His brow scrunched, “What do you mean?”
“I just wonder whether this is all a fluke.”
He placed his hand over hers and bent until he was eye level, “You have to stop doing this. Your confidence has been shaken by a couple of assholes who I’m guessing had never read a romance novel in their lives, and probably think it’s too beneath them to do. So why bother with what they think? They wouldn’t have been able to spot your talent if there’d been a blazing neon sign above your head.”
She smiled, “Thank you.”
“It’s time you started believing in yourself.”
“I know.”
“No more doubt then?”
Her smile widened. “No more doubt.”