I always thought you can have both. And you can be both. Being in love doesn’t make you weak or dependent. Staring at the night sky together, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes gives you wings. It fills your heart and body with energy to accomplish everything else. I think so. I hope so. Yes, my characters all lived happily ever after, but I don’t see anything wrong with that. There’s enough sadness in the world as it is.

At first, I was determined to stand behind my stories and push forward. Still, even the most confident of us need reassurance, and mine never came. Instead, more critiques piled up. ‘The market is too competitive, and these books don’t have what it takes. There’s nothing there. Cardboard characters, unrealistic plot. It suggests immaturity; lack of experience.’

That last rejection discouraged me. I started doubting whether I’d ever become a full-time writer, which was all I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl. At the same time, I knew I had to make a living, so journalism was the next best thing. I’ve put six years into my journalistic career, and all I have to show for it is a role as a junior reporter for a Brooklyn-based magazine.

I never attempted to pen another novel, but I continued with my stories. I don’t care if they’ll never be seen by anyone else but me. I’m not writing for an audience. I’m doing this for myself and because when I’m inspired, I can’t help but write. Most of the time, inspiration hits when I meet people I wish had different lives: better, happier. Inconveniently, that seems to happen at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Last week, I shadowed a senior reporter—which means prepping interview questions and taking notes—when I saw a janitor in front of Yankee Stadium. I named him Ian. He ran after a loose dog and returned it to its owner, a sharply dressed businesswoman. Elizabeth, I thought, suited her perfectly. Minutes later, instead of taking notes during the interview, I was writing my best love story yet—Ian and Elizabeth’s.

That’s who I am. Happy in my made-up worlds where anything is possible. Where someone like me, like her, like him, can have everything. Saccharine and all.

Two

I finally get to the front of the line in the Starbucks where I just saw ‘Natalie Bechamel’.

“Good morning, Maya. What will it be today?” asks the barista with a smile.

“Hi, Kay.” Kay has her own HEA that I wrote last year. Still waiting for it to happen.

“The usual,” I say. “One Venti Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce; one grande, quad, nonfat, one-pump, no-whip mocha; one Tall Chai Tea Latte, three pumps, skim milk, no foam, extra hot; one Venti Iced Ristretto, four-pump, sugar-free, cinnamon, Dolce Soy Skinny Latte; and one Venti Iced Skinny Hazelnut Macchiato, extra shot.”

Always five, so I can’t carry them in a drink tray. Because why make life easy?