It might seem counterproductive to find solace in a bookstore while having an existential writer’s crisis, but City Lights Booksellers & Publishers is my favorite place to lose myself when I’m feeling low. It’s a total cliché, but being surrounded by bookshelves comforts me.

I used to spend hours every day in this store before I sold the first book in my series. I’d visit all my favorites, as if I didn’t have a copy of these books at home. My favorite book of all time is On the Road by Jack Kerouac. Now there’s a book that changed the world. I wish I could write like Kerouac. I wish I could write something even close to that impactful. Instead, I’m writing fluffy World War II romance that works just as well as Viagra on older gentlemen.

I guess I should be thankful that men are reading my books at all. In my experience, most romance readers are female. But judging by Mister Carver’s love letter to my series, I have a wider reach than I thought.

Honestly, if you had told teenage Rhea that one day her books would be beloved, she would’ve been over the moon. All I ever wanted was to be a published author. I wanted to see my books in stores. I used to fantasize about seeing other people reading my books in public.

I have everything I’ve ever wanted. So why on earth am I so miserable?

If I can’t muster up some inspiration for the next few books in An American Love Story, then I’ll really be screwed. I can’t lose this. Writing is all I have. In college, I would forgo parties and dates to stay at home and write. If I had a motto, it would be, “Write first, live later.” Words to live by.

I should get that stitched on a pillow.

I slowly walk around the store, hoping that I’ll absorb some inspiration by osmosis.

I shouldn’t, but I pass by the romance section. I’m not one of those writers who’s besties with my fellow genre authors. I don’t have time for relationships, and if I’m being totally honest, I’m way too competitive with other writers. Of course, there are friendly acquaintances I run into at events and conferences, but even then my social anxiety makes it difficult for me to hold normal human conversations. I’m great at writing dialogue, but half the time I stumble over my own words.

I recognize a bunch of familiar titles. I’ve met the author of a popular motorcycle romance series, where all of the male bikers are named after tools. Hammer. Drill. Wrench. Screwdriver. I’m not kidding. I asked the author if she would name one of the books Plunger, and she didn’t find it funny.

Then there’s the royal vampire series that’s been ongoing for thirty years. Love never dies, I guess. Unless it’s stabbed in the heart.

When I get to the S’s, my heart skips a beat. It never gets old, seeing the name Rhea Stone on a book’s spine and front cover.

The excitement I feel is extinguished when I realize my books are taking up an entire “S” shelf. On the one hand, my books are being sold in a bookstore! But on the other hand, the fact that they’re sitting here means that they’re not being read. Not as many people are buying them.

I pick up a copy of book one, turning it over to look at my author photo on the back. God, she was naive. And cute. With less dark circles and, look at that, clean hair! I’m smiling in the photo. Sometimes I forget that I’m capable of smiling.

Would anyone in this store recognize me if they were a fan? Probably not. I look nothing like my author photo right now.

I don’t know if the fact that I’m unrecognizable from my own image is a relief or just depressing. I’m definitely not in the mood to be recognized right now.

I pull my hoodie up over my head, just in case.

I cradle my book in my arms, like a baby. Technically, it is my baby. It might be the only baby I ever give birth to.

“Help me,” I mumble to my literary child.

When you’re muttering to inanimate objects and asking them for assistance, you’ve reached a new low. Maybe this is my rock bottom.

Though if I’ve learned anything about rock bottoms, it’s that there’s always another trap door. And then another. And then another. And you can keep falling. There’s no limit to how far you can plummet.

I close my eyes. I wish a tiny sinkhole would open up in the middle of this bookstore and take me right now, then magically close up like it never happened. Like I never existed.

I guess I’m not wishing hard enough, because I’m still here when I open my eyes.

With one last glance at my book, I return it to the shelf.

And that’s when someone’s hand suddenly grabs the back of my neck.

Oh god.

He found me.