Writers. To my fortunate luck, they met on Wednesdays, which was today. Henry thought it would be a great opportunity for me meet some other authors and pick their brains, so he encouraged me to email them. Within an hour I got a reply back saying they met on Wednesday around five thirty.
That’s how I found myself standing outside their meeting place, trying to calm my nerves. I made sure to wear a cute fifties-style dress and red cardigan to match my glasses. My Mary Jane’s were full of foot sweat, and just to match, my upper lip started to perspire as well. I wasn’t nervous to meet them; I was more nervous of the requirements for a newbie to join. They asked me to bring the first few pages of my current work in progress for everyone to critique as “initiation.”
I wasn’t aware of writing clubs hazing newbies; I wasn’t sure if this was a normal practice or not. Henry encouraged me to go, despite my reservations about people pawing through my work. He said I had to get used to people judging my words at some point, so why not by some people who could offer guidance and constructive criticism. I hated when he was logical.
The only thing propelling me forward through this meeting was the date I had planned with Henry after. Seeing him right after was what caused the vomiting reflux to slightly appear.
To make matters worse, Delaney called me this morning and asked how the bachelorette plans were coming along. I lied and said everything was looking great, when in fact, I’d planned nothing, absolutely nothing. Despite the detailed list she gave me, I still felt helpless in planning, so Henry kindly agreed to help by taking me to an adult store where we could find some penis paraphernalia. I stuffed some of Delaney’s ideas in my purse for reference before I left the apartment, so I didn’t get the cheap penis items she found so distasteful.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and walked through the doors of the little bookstore. It was quaint, kind of reminded me of The Shop Around the Corner from You’ve Got Mail, but instead of children’s books, it was full of romance novels, all kinds of romance novels. There were westerns, period pieces, contemporary, new adult, romantic comedy, paranormal, sports romance, and of course . . . the millionaires and billionaires. This was my kind of place.
Feeling a little excited now, I walked to the back of the shop, where there were a handful of women sitting around a table, drinking coffee, and gabbing away. They were all older than me . . . like way older than me. Youngest member must have been at least ten years my senior. Not quite what I was expecting, but still a nice treat to be able to meet some other authors.
“Um, hello. Are you part of the SoHo Romance Writer’s club?” I asked, instantly feeling shy again.
A heavyset woman with a nest of white hair stood up from her chair and held out her hand. “That would be us. You must be Rosie. I’m Sally. We spoke through email.”
“Hi, Sally.” I shook her hand, which was quite clammy, and then looked around the table. With a small wave, I said, “Hi, everyone. Thanks for having me.”
“Please, take a seat,” a woman to Sally’s right said. “I’m Myrtle, the vice president of the group. To my right is Betty, our secretary. On Sally’s right is Sue and then Wendy.”
Sue and Wendy both waved at me and said hello. Sue was wearing a paisley scarf over a mauve turtleneck and big pearl earrings. Wendy was sporting a fleece wolf patterned jacket and a bolo tie. She looked very out of place.
“Nice to meet you all.”
“We were just talking about the new tends within the romance community. Have you noticed any?” Sally asked me.
“Um, trends? I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about; I’m still new at this. I joined a couple of Facebook groups for book lovers . . . they post a lot of penis pictures. Would that be a trend?”
“That’s not a trend, that’s a staple in this
That’s how I found myself standing outside their meeting place, trying to calm my nerves. I made sure to wear a cute fifties-style dress and red cardigan to match my glasses. My Mary Jane’s were full of foot sweat, and just to match, my upper lip started to perspire as well. I wasn’t nervous to meet them; I was more nervous of the requirements for a newbie to join. They asked me to bring the first few pages of my current work in progress for everyone to critique as “initiation.”
I wasn’t aware of writing clubs hazing newbies; I wasn’t sure if this was a normal practice or not. Henry encouraged me to go, despite my reservations about people pawing through my work. He said I had to get used to people judging my words at some point, so why not by some people who could offer guidance and constructive criticism. I hated when he was logical.
The only thing propelling me forward through this meeting was the date I had planned with Henry after. Seeing him right after was what caused the vomiting reflux to slightly appear.
To make matters worse, Delaney called me this morning and asked how the bachelorette plans were coming along. I lied and said everything was looking great, when in fact, I’d planned nothing, absolutely nothing. Despite the detailed list she gave me, I still felt helpless in planning, so Henry kindly agreed to help by taking me to an adult store where we could find some penis paraphernalia. I stuffed some of Delaney’s ideas in my purse for reference before I left the apartment, so I didn’t get the cheap penis items she found so distasteful.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and walked through the doors of the little bookstore. It was quaint, kind of reminded me of The Shop Around the Corner from You’ve Got Mail, but instead of children’s books, it was full of romance novels, all kinds of romance novels. There were westerns, period pieces, contemporary, new adult, romantic comedy, paranormal, sports romance, and of course . . . the millionaires and billionaires. This was my kind of place.
Feeling a little excited now, I walked to the back of the shop, where there were a handful of women sitting around a table, drinking coffee, and gabbing away. They were all older than me . . . like way older than me. Youngest member must have been at least ten years my senior. Not quite what I was expecting, but still a nice treat to be able to meet some other authors.
“Um, hello. Are you part of the SoHo Romance Writer’s club?” I asked, instantly feeling shy again.
A heavyset woman with a nest of white hair stood up from her chair and held out her hand. “That would be us. You must be Rosie. I’m Sally. We spoke through email.”
“Hi, Sally.” I shook her hand, which was quite clammy, and then looked around the table. With a small wave, I said, “Hi, everyone. Thanks for having me.”
“Please, take a seat,” a woman to Sally’s right said. “I’m Myrtle, the vice president of the group. To my right is Betty, our secretary. On Sally’s right is Sue and then Wendy.”
Sue and Wendy both waved at me and said hello. Sue was wearing a paisley scarf over a mauve turtleneck and big pearl earrings. Wendy was sporting a fleece wolf patterned jacket and a bolo tie. She looked very out of place.
“Nice to meet you all.”
“We were just talking about the new tends within the romance community. Have you noticed any?” Sally asked me.
“Um, trends? I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about; I’m still new at this. I joined a couple of Facebook groups for book lovers . . . they post a lot of penis pictures. Would that be a trend?”
“That’s not a trend, that’s a staple in this
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