Chapter 2 — Sadie’s Critique

Harper

The workshop loft smelled like ink, ambition, and the faint sandalwood perfume Sadie always seemed to carry with her. The exposed brick walls held stories of their own, while the sunlight streaming through the tall windows painted warm streaks onto the long wooden table. The air felt heavier than usual today, each beam of light falling like a spotlight, and I was center stage. My heart hammered in my chest, my fingers tightening around my Story Notebook, its leather cover warming in my grip like it was absorbing my nervous energy. It was my lifeline, my shield against the sharp edges of this room.

Sadie Brooks sat at the head of the table, her short silver hair catching the afternoon light like a halo—only if screenwriting angels wielded fountain pens like swords. Her pen flicked idly between her fingers, poised to strike with precision. Around me, the usual mix of aspiring writers murmured about their work, their voices a low hum of nerves and camaraderie. A stray laugh rippled through the group, but it couldn’t pierce the knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach.

I glanced down at the notes I had scribbled before the session—lines of dialogue, a few scene ideas, and a half-hearted bullet point that read, *“Be confident!”* None of it grounded me. The words blurred together into meaningless squiggles.

Sadie set the script she had been reviewing down with a finality that silenced the room. Her gaze swept across the table, sharp and unrelenting, until it landed on me.

“Next up,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “Harper.”

For a moment, my legs refused to move. My notebook felt heavier in my hands, as though every crossed-out line inside it had turned to lead. Finally, I forced myself to stand, my motions stiff and robotic as I carried my notebook to the front of the room. This was fine. Totally fine. Just a room full of other writers who probably felt just as terrified as I did. Right?

I cleared my throat, clutching the notebook like a life preserver. “This is a scene from Act Two of my script,” I began, my voice wavering slightly. “It’s called *Between the Lines.* It’s... a romantic comedy about two people who bond over their shared love of storytelling but can’t quite admit their feelings for each other.”

The words sounded flat, even to me. I hesitated, then dove into reading the scene aloud. The dialogue flowed—banter between my two leads as they flirted and deflected, layering humor over their unspoken feelings. It was the kind of scene that usually felt like home, but today, each line ricocheted back at me with a nagging question: Is this enough?

As I read, I couldn’t help but think of Noah. His teasing smile, the way his voice softened when he called me “James,” the way I always felt like I was walking a tightrope between friendship and something... more. The banter in my script suddenly felt too familiar, too revealing. I pushed the thought aside, but it lingered, a whisper at the edge of my mind.

When I finished, the silence was deafening.

I looked up, searching the faces around the table for something—anything. A spark of approval, a glimmer of admiration. Most wore polite, unreadable expressions, but Sadie’s gaze was locked on me, her eyes narrowing slightly as her fountain pen tapped the table in slow, deliberate beats. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Well,” she said finally, leaning back in her chair, “the dialogue is snappy, as always. You’ve got a gift for humor, Harper. That much is clear.”

I exhaled, relief washing over me like a wave. Praise from Sadie wasn’t just rare—it was a collector’s item. But then, her pen stilled, and she tilted her head, leveling me with a look that made my stomach twist.

“But,” she continued, her voice measured and deliberate, “it’s all surface-level. Clever, yes, but where’s the heart? Where’s the vulnerability?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. “The heart?” I echoed, though the question came out small and unsure.

Sadie nodded, her pen tracing idle circles on the page in front of her. “Do you want your audience to care about these characters?” she asked. “To root for them?”

“Yes, of course,” I said quickly, my fingers tightening on the edge of my notebook.

“Then you need to give them a reason to care,” she said simply. “Right now, your characters are witty, charming, but they feel like they’re performing. Like they’re wearing masks.”

My cheeks burned. “I thought the subtext was clear,” I offered feebly, though the words felt hollow the moment they left my mouth.

“Subtext isn’t the same as emotional depth,” Sadie corrected, her tone softening slightly but not losing its edge. “You’re skimming the surface because it’s safer. But great stories aren’t safe. They’re messy. Honest. They make you uncomfortable.”

Her words burrowed deep, exposing the truth I’d been trying to avoid. She wasn’t wrong. But hearing it out loud, in front of everyone, made my chest tighten with something between embarrassment and defensiveness. My throat felt dry, and I fought the urge to shrink into myself, to bury my face in my notebook and pretend I didn’t exist.

“What do they want, Harper?” Sadie pressed. “What are they afraid of? What’s the thing they can’t say out loud, even to themselves?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My mind was a flurry of questions, doubts, and snippets of dialogue that suddenly felt hollow. My fingers trembled slightly, and I gripped my notebook tighter to steady them.

Sadie leaned forward, her voice dropping enough to make the moment feel intimate. “You’ve got talent, Harper. That much is obvious. But talent alone isn’t enough. You need to dig deeper. Let yourself feel. Otherwise, you’re just writing clever words on a page.”

I nodded numbly, unable to meet her eyes. My throat felt too tight to speak, and a lump that tasted like regret settled in my chest.

“All right,” Sadie said, sitting back in her chair and clicking the cap of her fountain pen into place with a snap. “Let’s move on.”

I returned to my seat in a daze, the weight of her critique settling heavily on my shoulders. Around me, the session continued, but I barely registered the words. My notebook sat on the table in front of me, closed and silent, like it was mocking me. I ran my fingers over the faint doodles on the cover, an anchor in the swirling tide of doubt.

As the workshop wrapped up, I lingered at my seat, pretending to jot down notes while the others packed their things and filtered out. A young man with glasses and a nervous smile glanced at me as he passed. “Your dialogue was great,” he murmured. “I wish I could write banter like that.”

I forced a small smile. “Thanks.”

His words should’ve been comforting, but they only added to the pit of doubt building in my chest. Even the compliments felt like reminders of what I was lacking.

Sadie remained at the head of the table, scribbling something in her notebook. Her fountain pen moved with a steady rhythm, but her eyes carried a distant, almost weary look. I hesitated, then forced myself to stand.

“Sadie?” My voice wavered, and I hated how small it sounded.

She looked up, her expression unreadable.

“Thank you for the feedback,” I said, clutching my notebook against my chest like a lifeline. “I—I know you’re right. It’s just... hard. I guess I’m scared of getting it wrong.”

Sadie studied me for a moment, her gaze softer now, though still sharp enough to cut through my defenses. “Fear is part of the process, Harper,” she said gently. “If you’re not scared, you’re not pushing yourself hard enough.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ll try.”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, a rare and precious thing. “Good. I look forward to seeing what you come up with next.”

As I stepped out of the loft, the late afternoon sun stretched across the arts district, casting long shadows on the pavement. My notebook felt heavier than before, its pages weighed down by my doubts and the echoes of Sadie’s words. But something else stirred beneath the weight—a flicker of determination.

*Fear is part of the process.*

Maybe it was time to stop circling the edges of my story and dive into the messy, vulnerable heart of it.