a satisfying calm as I tuck my car keys into the pocket of my jeans. The hem of my plaid shirt falls back into place. A laptop bag drapes one shoulder, casing my computer, notes for the week, and a pair of headphones. All good company for a day of work at the coffee shop. Since it’s the start of the week, I’ll need to finish by two in order to be at the elementary school and pick up my neighbor’s daughter. Meghan, a single mom, works as a waitress at a nearby diner most afternoons and doesn’t have anyone to get her daughter on Mondays. So, I’ve been picking up little Sammy on these days since school began. Our walks to the diner are always an excuse for laughter and sometimes even ice cream.
For now, though, it’s focus time so that I can get all my work done before then. Since the magazine I write for is located in Cincinnati, all of the correspondence between the editors and me happen by email, phone, or virtual meeting. Today it’s none of those. I simply need to wrap up this month’s column, which is nearly finished. The one column isn’t enough to live on so I also copyedit novels on the side through my freelance business.
Swinging open the coffee shop door, I skirt around tables toward my favorite spot in the corner. The quaint business is always quiet this time of day. I’m happy to see that my favorite window spot with its river view is available. The same river that Britt and I overlooked last week. Thinking of her again has me whipping out my phone to send that follow-up text. She wasn’t at church yesterday, which has me even more determined to check in and make sure she knows that the people around her care. I hope she’s doing a little better, but having had my fair share of heartache, I know it’s not always so simple. After hitting send, I place my phone on the table, then brush a gratifying smear of chalk from the case.
I’m already planning another afternoon at the climbing gym. Our instructor explained that it’s important to let your hands and body rest a day or two between sessions, so I’ll follow that rule of thumb and head back tomorrow or the day after. My muscles hurt in ways I didn’t know possible, so the rest is a good idea anyway. I don’t have a membership, but the gym offers a ten-visit punch card. Pretty sure I need one of those with my name on it. Part of the day will involve running through my monthly budget and squirreling a little away for that. Since my first class was free, I’m already dreaming of getting the first punch on the card, chalking up both hands, and seeing if I can make it to the top of the climb that was so intimidating.
I hope I can do it.
The barista brings over my usual—a caramel macchiato and breakfast croissant sandwich. I tap my card to the credit card machine that she fishes from her pocket. I have absolutely no idea why I ordered a peppermint mocha the other night. I don’t even like peppermint mochas. But everyone else was ordering them, and feeling awkward to begin with, I simply said, “I’ll have the same.”
But that’s not who I am and it’s not who I want to be. I don’t want to be the girl that blends in. I don’t want to be someone who doesn’t know who she is when push comes to shove. I’m becoming a believer in exploring new things along with not forgetting who I am and what I value due to peer pressure or even nerves. I’m a firm believer in trying something new. And I do know this much: I do not like peppermint mochas.
Which reminds me. There’s a once-a-month singles movie night this Friday. It sounds like everyone is going to watch an action movie.
At least there’s a few more days to decide, and for now? I’ve got an article to finish.
I sip the steaming latte, relish in the glorious flavors of coffee and caramel, and snap open my laptop. Soft indie music plays from the speakers overhead. The screen lights with the very spot I left off, and since my computer is used to being here once a week, the internet connects automatically. After scrolling through a few work-related emails, the arrow that glides across the screen lands on the document for my latest article. The document springs open—words filling the screen.
I sigh. It’s more like a groan, so I drown the rest of the sound with another sip of frothy coffee.
It’s not that I don’t like this career, but after five years of writing a dating advice column for Christians, it’s hard to know what to say anymore. Coming up with ideas is easy enough, but executing those ideas is the tough part. When I first signed up for this job, I was dating a really nice guy that I’d met through some mutual friends. The article opportunity came along and I jumped at the chance to share the brightness of the dating world. It was a magical and thrilling place. As a writer—and a girlfriend—I was on top of the world. A few months later, the break-up made it nearly impossible to keep going. But the column was paying the bills. Now the sharpest edges of that pain are over, but there’s a deep ache that lingers. A soreness that I really want to listen to.
I’m so weary of writing about how to navigate the online dating world or offering cute ideas for first dates. The hardest article I had to write was giving women tips on communicating with a guy who is pursuing them. Not that such a skill is bad. But it just rubbed salt in an open wound when I was sitting in an empty apartment, single as the day is long, and wishing to actually have someone to talk to.
Today, it’s time to focus on this one: “Six Ways to Introduce Someone to Your Family for the Holidays.”
Ugh.
I flop forward on the table only to accidentally bump my forehead on the edge of the laptop. I sit up and rub the soreness away.
Okay, come on, Sadie. You are a professional. You can do this. Four of the tips are already written so only two more need to be knocked out. Time to spend the next hour focusing on those, ignoring the niggling icon at the bottom of my screen. A second word doc that is actually the article I truly long to write: “How to Have Joy This Holiday Season if You’re Single.” But my editor starts steaming as soon as I mention articles that talk about contentment in singleness. His reasons make sense—it’s not our target audience. And I get his perspective. The target audience pays the bills. They pay my bills. Technically, other magazines cover those topics. It’s something I’ve been pondering for a while now. But the awareness of a thing and the courage to make the jump aren’t the same. Then again, maybe I’m learning otherwise.
As for today, I’m committed to fulfilling this month’s topic and word count, so . . . it’s time to dig in deep.
I get to work, laboring over the final tips. Years of practice dials in focus. Shutting out everything else fuels me and flips the switch to autopilot. It makes this process easier. If I can write from the surface—even from memory—then I can honor the women who will read this article. They deserve something special and meaningful. Yet it comes at the cost of having to disregard the thousands upon thousands of single women who will have to skip past the magazine in search of some other source of hope and direction. And that’s what is no longer sitting well with me.
As the morning wears on, my fingers fly across the keys by sheer determination, and when the sixth tip is finally on the page, I lean back in the chair and blow out a sigh. My bangs flutter. I straighten them with fingertips that are still sore from a full morning of climbing on Saturday. I examine the skin and the rough patches that took the brunt force of my bodyweight dangling from rough holds. It’s weird how gratifying these sore fingers are today. They’re a victory badge like nothing I’ve ever known before.
When the laptop battery icon flashes low, I tug the cord from the case and wedge it into the outlet. I’ve been so focused on the task at hand, that I just now sense my surroundings again. The coffee shop door jangles open. A barista passes by, holding a tray of hot chocolates. Not wanting my sandwich to go unfinished, I savor a tasty bite.
After scrolling to the top of the article, I begin the editing phase, clipping out words that aren’t needed, fixing typos, and adding minor details that jazz up the topic. I’ve sprinkled in guidance and confidence which is what the readers need, a little humor (which keeps me sane), as well as some points of application on how they can use these tips in a variety of ways when introducing their boyfriend or girlfriend or even fiancé to their families at Thanksgiving or Christmas. My editor is going to send me notes for revision anyway, so I go ahead and send off the article. We’ll make it positively perfect before it goes live on the web. Thank goodness, because I can’t stand to look at this anymore today.
When my phone chimes, the screen brightens with a response from Britt.
Doing okay.
Now to read between those lines. It could either mean that she is doing okay and having a relatively normal day, or she’s totally distraught and doesn’t know how to put it into words. It takes a few minutes to find a response that opens the door for either being the case.
Anything I can do? I’m at the coffee shop right now, and would love to drop off your favorite drink. I’m buying.
I set the phone aside to give her plenty of time to respond. I know what it’s like to be looking in the mirror right now at the mascara under your puffy eyes and the pile of used tissues laying on the bedroom floor. It was clear she really liked Jason, maybe even from before joining the singles group. He’s on the worship team at our church and is a super nice guy. I honestly thought he liked Britt back until the week that Katie started coming and everything shifted. Maybe we women could use an article about that. On how to find joy again and keep moving forward when our romantic dreams don’t go as planned. But I can hear my editor’s voice in my head. That’s not our target audience.
The phone buzzes again.
That’s so nice. It’s been a tough weekend so a peppermint mocha would be amazing.
I smile at the irony. I’m glad it’s at least someone’s favorite drink.
You got it. Can I add a breakfast sandwich too?
You’re a lifesaver, Sadie.
A waft of warm, summer air swirls in through the open window. Anytime. I’ll swing by in thirty minutes. I can pop in and visit if you’re up to it or leave it on the porch.
I honestly haven’t even gotten out of my pajamas yet today. But they’re Minnie Mouse and I guess it’s making me feel better.
I laugh. Porch it is. I figured that would be the best thing for her right now, but wanted to offer. It will be a cinch to drop off the meal on my way to pick up Sammy from kindergarten today.
Both my little friend and I would attest to the fact that sometimes a hot bite to eat and something cold and tasty is just what a girl needs to part the clouds on a dismal day. Aiming for the counter, I place the order for Britt, then return to pack up. With my laptop still open, I double click on an Excel sheet where I catalog all of my works-in-progress. The newly finished one earns a check next to the submitted column where there are still blanks beneath accepted, edited, and printed. It’s been a handy way to keep track of how each project is flowing through the process. Along with which ideas have been successful. There are dozens of article ideas that haven’t even been started, and I have to admit, I feel a needle of dread at thinking of starting some of them. Of putting heart and energy into them, adding my name as the author, and once again, spending another month talking about the Christian dating life.
Not that it’s not a worthy topic. It absolutely is. Maybe someday I’ll even have loads to write about it. But as I fetch Britt’s to-go cup and hot sandwich all neatly bagged, the question circling my heart is what kind of article would a woman in her shoes need? What would brighten her day—right now—and fill her with just a little more hope and courage? I’m starting to recognize that with the way my life is going—and the sheer lack of a successful romance—that maybe I’m in the wrong business entirely. And I just can’t figure out what to do about that. Then again, maybe I know exactly what to do about it. Maybe I just need to get brave enough to make that jump.