Birds of a Feather

Chapter Five

The next Sunday came and once again I found myself walking to our writing group meeting in the rain. The temperature sat in the low forties and puddles accumulated in dips in the sidewalk, my Doc Martens unafraid to splash in them as I walked the few blocks down to Lake Washington Books.

Everyone was already there—including Dr. Burris and her student for the week—a guy who looked around my age. He had dark skin, a fade hair cut, and flawless skin that I would've killed for in high school. I'd have to hit him up for his skincare routine afterward. Despite his smooth skin, a small freckling of black facial hair was visible along his chin and jawline.

He certainly wasn't the average student that Dr. Burris brought around. While creative writing programs did attract men, many are largely female and gender non-conforming. Though, of course, it depends on the school you go to and the exact program. On average, the highest number of men will be just equal to or just below that of the women enrolled in the creative writing program.

Therefore, the vast majority of students that Dr. Burris brought into writing group were ponytailed, light skinned, introverted young women. Not necessarily unlike myself in college. In recent years, the push for more diverse voices in fiction has led to more people entering the writing field. Which is great, but, unfortunately in my genre of choice, romance, women of color, men, and non-cisgendered, white women are ignored, overlooked, or simply denied the ability to be successful.

Poetry, Young Adult, and to an extent, Fiction are slowly becoming more inclusive. I expected this student to possibly be a poet. Maybe he does slam poetry on the weekends, or maybe he writes love poems to his significant other and slips them in the pocket of their raincoat. I could also see him as a budding Young Adult author with an idea inspired by his own childhood possibly.

"Hey Cece," Dr. Burris said, her voice holding an urgent tone, like they were all awaiting my arrival. "This is Cal Gray. He'll be joining us from now on."

Oh.

This was Cal. Cal, the aspiring romance novelist. Cal, the graduate student Dr. Burris raved about. Cal, the person who stood me up on Tuesday.

"Hi Cecelia," Cal said, holding out his hand. I couldn't help but catch the lilt of an accent. Boston? Southern? I couldn't place it.

"Cece, please," I said, reaching out to take his hand and shake it.

"I'm a big fan of your work. My grandma loves reading your novels and when I first got into the romance genre yours were some of the first books I read." He seemed excited, nearly overjoyed to talk to me.

It was cute.

Every writer with moderate success has their fans, of course. The ones who will have their day made if you reply to their tweet or wait in line for hours just to get their book signed. They are the ones that make you feel like a celebrity inside of a small independent bookstore in the suburbs.

"Thanks, that really means a lot."

"Would you sign a book to her? It would really make her happy." He passed me a copy of my first novel. There were white lines on the spine and a few of the pages were bent. Nothing made me happier to see that someone read my book so many times that it left marks of aging and tatter.

"She has COPD and so she can't really do much without getting out of breath. So, she reads a lot. I think she's probably read that one twenty times."

"What's your grandmother's name?"

"Eloise."

I took out a black ink pen and signed,

To Eloise,