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“Well at least he thinks this oven can still bake something,” Helen says with a chuckle. “Best of luck, dear.”
I wave, shooing my dogs back into the house and running out to my car. I’m already running late.
Chapter 2
Poppy
W3AS.
It’s probably not the best acronym in the world, but it works for us. Besides, I think as I run up the stairs to the second-floor study room of the Great Falls Public Library, Women Who Write Awesome Shit doesn’t look very polite on the room reservation forms.
Whenever someone asks, we just call it ‘wheeze’, like the sound a two-pack-a-day smoker makes. It’s a weird assembly of women, but they’re my tribe.
There’s Aleria, who is only thirty but is by far the oldest soul of our group. Blonde and often barefoot—and possibly naked—beneath her floaty skirts, she loves to fit social commentary into just about everything she says, does, or writes. She’s big on nature magic, inner power, and a lot of ‘crunchy granola’ stuff like meditation, crystals, and kombucha. More than once, we’ve caught her trying to cast spells over the group, which she says are protective spells against the ‘evil magics the patriarchal capitalist system uses to leech our feminine power’, also known as shitty publishing contracts like the one she got tricked into as a newbie romance author.
So of course, she writes indie paranormal romance with some pretty creative sex scenes and groupings that can open your mind to unique possibilities even if you’ll never, ever meet a vampire, a werewolf, and a faerie at the same time.
Daysha’s sassy but the most no-nonsense of us. Highly educated with a bachelor’s from Spellman and a master’s from Columbia, she keeps us in line. You always have to be prepped for Daysha because if you ask her for an opinion, she’s going to tell you exactly how she sees it. Offended? Tough shit, which she admits can get her in trouble, but more often than not, she doesn’t really care. Daysha’s specialty is dark romance.
Jasmine’s our resident sarcastic, snappy weirdo who bounces between Sci-Fi and Sci-Fi erotica. Younger than anyone else and still in college, she changes her hair color with just about every book she writes, often as a hint to her theme for her upcoming book. Like when she put a book in a Matrix-like universe, her hair was a bright neon green. As I walk in, I see that she’s still rocking her natural blonde, which probably means she’s between books.
The loudest of our group, though, is Becca. She’s pretty much our group cheerleader, which is funny because that’s largely how she put herself through college, on a cheerleading scholarship. Her time around both the ‘in crowd’ and ‘out crowd’ means she knows exactly how to overreact to everything at all times. The Space Deer coffee place is out of her favorite blend? Catastrophe. There’s a category-five hurricane in some far-off country? Equally catastrophic.
But Becca’s true talent has to be as a professional shit stirrer. She knows exactly how to get people worked up, and if she ever transitions to Hollywood like she says she wants to, she’s going to become a director. She’s that much of a puppet master, and her rom-coms are just as twisty. I could totally see her writing and filming twenty seasons of the same show and still managing to keep it fresh and surprising every week with stuff like ‘OMG, Jason slept with who?’ and ‘He died from a coconut hitting him on the head’.
“Hey, ladies,” I greet as I come in, hugging all around. I swear Aleria sniffs me as I hug her hello, so it’s a good thing I showered and washed my hair.
“Are you making the most of your 86,400 seconds today?” Aleria asks in her usual airy tone. It’s her way of gently reminding me to choose wisely and not fuck around on my deadline or I’ll find out what the publishing company really thinks of me.
“Well,” I admit, sitting down and pulling my laptop out of my bag, “I don’t know about that, but I’ve got great news today. My agent got me a spot at J.A. Fox’s upcoming workshop.”
What I love about my Wheezers is that there’s no real jealousy. Instead, it’s cheers all around, with Daysha adding on, “Okay then, you lucky bitch, better get to work so you can show her what you’ve got. Twenty minutes, ladies? Go.”
It’s a sprint session, one of the tools we use during our meetings. Twenty minutes, just type, and to hell with spelling, grammar, or any of that. Just crank.
My problem, though, is that as I stare at my keyboard, no words come to me. I’ve been stuck at this same love scene for Trouble in Great Falls for going on a week. I’ve written, deleted, and re-written this fucking thing so much that I literally have pains in my forearms, and for what? Nothing good, that’s what!
