No, it was a girl in my first-year fiction workshop who came to class drunk on peach schnapps, tossed her short story at our teacher, threw up in a trash can, and walked out of class.

I think about her often.

Because she was right.

It’s also the reason I’m pretty sure that no one actually chooses to be a writer. It’s a terrible choice.

Also terrible? The title of this post.

I hope Stephen Sondheim will forgive me for the egregious pun. I really hope Stephen Sondheim doesn’t read Blogger.

I tried taking a lesson from him, and attempted writing while lying down.

I fell asleep before I could write a Tony Award–worthy musical. Before I could write anything.

One would think all the brilliant ideas swarming around my head would keep me awake. They didn’t. The only thing that keeps me awake is the fear that I’m not a good writer. That I’m not even a bad writer.

No. I’m worried I’m just a boring one.

And that feels like the worst option of all.

xoChani

Chapter 5

Chapter
5

THE HOUSE WAS BEAUTIFUL. AND enormous.

“There are eight bedrooms,” the real estate agent said. “Plus a pool house that can easily be renovated into a two-bedroom guesthouse. Three acres with a pool and hot tub. Screening room in the basement, next to the gym. Four bathrooms. Kitchen. Wine cellar.”

I had never been in a house as large as this one. The amount of space was obscene. Eight bedrooms? A gym? A sauna?

As far as I could tell, Gabe was one person. What did he need with all this space?

I glanced over at him, but he was being paid the big acting bucks for a reason—his face was inscrutable. I couldn’t tell if he loved the place or was five seconds away from picking up a chair and throwing it through the glass doors because he wanted nine bedrooms, dammit!

Even though he’d gotten more than a little drunk during lunch, he didn’t seem the type to throw a tantrum over the number of bedrooms available to him.

“Do you mind if I take a look around?” Gabe asked the real estate agent.

“Not at all,” she said, taking the hint and leaving the room.

We were in the kitchen. It was clean and modern, with shiny chrome everything and big windows that opened up onto a yard that was truly gorgeous. Impeccably maintained, it looked like a museum lawn.

“What do you think?” Gabe asked.

“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly.

He looked at me and crossed his arms. “But?”

“How do you know there’s a but?” I asked, immediately regretting the way I’d worded that.

He laughed. It was a great laugh, all low and dark and rich. If chocolate cake had a laugh, it would be that.