Nobody plans to live in a converted garden shed when they’re on the cusp of turning thirty. But that’s exactly where I live, in the backyard of my abuelita’s home, since rent in my small town in the Bay Area is such that most people my age can’t afford to live alone. The threat of months in my she-shed has brought me to this moment. Something has to change.

And behind the door of the charming bungalow residential house standing before me, there is possibility. This leafy tree-lined area is commonly referred to as Professorville, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Seven Trees, closest to the university.

I need this second job as a research assistant to a visiting history professor. It pays well, and once your fiancé dumps you weeks before the wedding, a girl needs a second job. This position would be perfect, with the flexible hours I can use to work around my main job as a ghostwriter.

I walk up the short flight of steps to the porch of the home with a pitch-style roof, a stone chimney, and a large picture window facing the front. The door is painted a forest green, giving the cottage a secret-garden quality.

Fist raised to the door, I’m ready to state my case as to why I should be hired.

But before I knock, the door swings open, and a middle-aged man who looks like the professor of my former MFA program in creative writing greets me. My shoulders unstiffen and I relax. This is perfect. He resembles every other professor I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of them. Portly, barrel-chested, wearing tweed, beard. Check, check, check, check.

“Well, hello! You must be here for the research position,” he says and waves me inside. “Please do come in.”

“Thank you! I’m so glad to meet you. My name is Lucia Milagros Santana but please call me Luci. Let me just say first off, I’m anxious to start working, and I can start today. The salary posted is more than adequate.”

“Um…” he says, probably not accustomed to someone as energetic.

If there’s anything I hear quite often, it’s “care to tone it down a bit?” It’s as if I have two dials: high and off. But certainly, this is not the time to find that middle ground.

“A little about me! I have my MFA in creative writing and I’m also a writer. I ghostwrite mostly but I also have my own novel, which I’m querying. Also, I’m a huge fan of history so this is perfect. I understand you’re a history professor and an author. This is a good fit, believe me. I love historical fiction, the older the better!”

Older the better? I internally roll my eyes. I’m constantly self-editing but life is not a book.

I must keep going.

He smiles. “Well, my dear, you are quite enthusiastic, aren’t you?”

“Yes! And I will work hard, I promise you. I’ve lived in Seven Trees for most of my life,” I say, because he should know everything about me, or everything that’s legally required. “My family lives here, my grandmother and uncle. My grandfather actually built the house they lived in, back in the nineteen sixties.”

He quirks a brow. “My, how grand. So, your family was here before the tech revolution.”

I’m excited because I think he likes me, and I’ve succeeded in making the good first impression one must make within the first few minutes of an introduction. It’s only then I notice the large suitcase sitting beside the professor. This is confusing for a moment, as the agency said the professor would be renting this house for at least a month and I’m told he’s been here only a week. The professor glances behind him, where a younger man entered the room at some point in my monologue. I look from the professor to the other man, waiting for someone to speak. I’ve been commanding the floor, which may have been a mistake, but did I mention how much I need this job?

“Ryan,” the professor says, turning to the younger man. “I believe your candidate has arrived.”

“I believe you’re right, Henry.”

My heart flutters in my chest. I’ve been selling myself to the wrong person. While they speak as if we’re all in a Jane Austen novel, my brain catches up with my mouth. The younger man is the antithesis of the older one. He’s wearing slacks and a Dodgers T-shirt, which might get him killed in these parts, and he looks more like a TA than an actual professor.

“Oh,” I say, and add an impromptu curtsy as I recover. “Mayhap I have made an error.”

The older professor bursts into laughter while the younger one continues to stare like he can’t believe they let people like me wander around town unattended. His head is cocked to the side, his black-rimmed Superman-style glasses sit slightly askew on his face. The urge to reach out and straighten them is distracting me.

“Yes, you have erred, my dear,” he says and chuckles, waving to Ryan. “But that’s completely understandable. This is Professor Brady, who will be staying in my home while I’m off for my six-month sabbatical in Egypt! I leave you in good hands.”

A wave of discomfort hits me, because this other man is not at all what I expected. For one thing, he’s young. For another, he’s got that Clark Kent, geeky, studious appearance only handsome men like him can pull off and still be cool. His hair is so dark it’s almost black, eyes a deep indigo blue. They droop slightly at the corners, giving him a sad puppy dog look.

“Let me help you out,” Ryan says, and bends to pick up another one of Professor Henry’s suitcases.

“Goodbye, my dear, and good luck! I’m off to see the pyramids!” Henry says.

“Bye, sir.”

Safe to say I will think of him often, every time I blow a job interview.

I walk a bit further into the home. Since I’m a writer, by nature I’m a snoop, but I dial it down with strangers. I’ve never been in one of these craftsman-style bungalows and I’m curious. There’s a fireplace to the left in the family room, dark gold paisley drapes, bookcases, and plants, with the kitchen straight ahead. Down the hallway must be the bedrooms. To the right is presumably the dining room and taking a few steps in, I find a farmhouse table filled with papers and books. Here, through the wide picture window, I have a clear view to the sidewalk where the two professors are engaged in an animated conversation.

Mr. Brady assembles luggage in the trunk of the sedan while Henry waves his hands in the air, then gestures to the house. Probably giving him instructions on how to water and care for the assemblage of cactuses and ferns. But Mr. Brady shakes his head, as if no way, can’t do it.

Oh my god, are they discussing whether or not he should hire me? That must mean I still have a chance! I take a step closer to see if I might be able to read their lips, and that’s when Ryan turns and sees me in the window. I know he does, because I see him, and for a second in time we just simply gawk at each other like time has stopped. Then I snap out of it and move away.

When Mr. Brady returns after seeing his friend off, I wonder if I still have a chance to get this job, and if I should still want it. He caught me in the window snooping. Also, it’s possible the cleft in the professor’s chin might make it difficult to concentrate on my work. He’s handsome and young, and I’m on the rebound. Not a great combination.

Then I remember my she-shed and how much I’d like to live in a place where I don’t have to leave my home to take a shower or have a homecooked meal. Where I’ll have some privacy from my loud and intrusive but well-meaning family who is still worried about me over the breakup that caused me to be here today in the first place.

But I need this job far more than I’m worried about crushing on the professor, so I will put a block on him. It’s the same thing I do when my cousin Sofia introduces me to her latest boyfriend. They’re always hot and the block allows me to appreciate them in the same way I do a beautiful sunset from a safe and healthy distance.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” I say, when Mr. Brady returns and closes the front door.

Something resembling the start of a smile seems to be fighting his mouth, and he’s winning. He doesn’t want to smile. Still, the hint of laughter is shimmering in his eyes and I can see it. It gives me hope.

“So, I feel like I know everything about you already other than possibly your blood type,” he says, hands tucked in the pockets of his dockers. “And…no notes.”

“He opened the door, so I thought—”

“Don’t apologize, it makes perfect sense.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You mentioned the salary is more than adequate,” he says.

“Yes, and please excuse me for being so enthusiastic. It’s just I really need this job. Have you seen the rent for a studio apartment in Seven Trees? I’d have to sell a kidney on my salary.”

“No need for that.”

He walks into the dining room, and I follow him. The home of the older professor smells like paper and moths and is filled with shelves upon shelves of thick books. The books are interspersed occasionally with interesting…um, art? Some of the pieces are embarrassingly erotic, like maybe I should turn my head and give them privacy.

Ryan catches me looking. “The professor travels a lot and collects…art. Last year he went to India.”

“Uh-huh. Nice man. Have you known him long?”

“He’s my mentor,” Ryan says. “He used to teach at UCLA, which was where we met. Now he’s Professor Emeritus at the university here.”

“You’re from Los Angeles?”

“Originally from Ohio but live in Pasadena,” he says, sitting at the dining table, which he’s clearly using as a desk and gestures for me to sit. “In your soliloquy, you mentioned you’re from here.”

“I’m one of those rarities, someone whose middle-class family has lived in the Bay Area for decades.”

We were here first, before the tech companies settled and changed the price of everything from housing to gas.

I pick up a paper with handwritten scribbles all over it. If this is his penmanship its atrocious. And were this truly a Jane Austen novel, I’d tell faux Mr. Darcy, “Pray tell, is this handwriting or hieroglyphics? Mayhap you can do better or risk offending a possible suitor with your careless efforts at penmanship.”

“I need help organizing this”—he waves his hand in the direction of papers, books, pens, pencils, laptop, and other detritus of a working writer—“into something cohesive I can use.”

I almost say, “Fear not, I will handily execute this,” but decide it’s time to abandon Jane Austen impressions.

“No problem,” I say. “I’ve got you.”

“What about hours?” Ryan says. “They’re flexible, but I want to know when to expect you.”

“Mornings around eight? I’ll bring the coffee!”

“The only exception is if I’ve had a rough night and stayed up all night writing. That happens. You don’t want to be around me then.”

“Um, okay. Does that happen…often?”

“More than I’d like.” He shakes his head, like angsty Mr. Darcy, regretting his life choices. He has floppy and wavy hair, a little longer in the front, and a lock of it falls over one side before he brushes it away.

“When do you start writing your book?”

“Soon,” he says. “My method is research first, then write the book. It takes me about nine months altogether, and yes, I realize that’s how long it takes to grow a baby.”

I smother a laugh in my effort to remain serious while privately thinking of more Jane Austen references.

“What do you write? The post said literary fiction.”

“World War II spy novels,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “I heard you say you love history. What’s your favorite period?”

I don’t know if this is a trick question but there’s really no other way I can answer honestly. “Regency.”

“Of course,” he says, and I’m not going to take this personally even if he sounds disappointed.

In his spare time, I imagine he makes fun of genre fiction as do most highbrow types. Well, to each his own.

There’s a knock on the door and the professor’s brow furrows.

“Should I…should I get it?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

Head down, he marches toward the door and a few seconds later I hear him say, “The position is filled.”

I look out the window and see a guy, probably a university student, getting back on his bicycle.

My day is made!

When he joins me again, my hands are clasped together. “Really? I got the job?”

“Well, as Henry said, I’d be an idiot not to hire you.” He shrugs. “And you got here first.”

“High praise indeed,” I say, holding out my hand. “I accept!”

That afternoon, I return to my shed with a second job.

My she-shed might not be much of a living space but for now it’s all I have. There’s barely enough room for my twin bed, a mini fridge, a hot plate, one big chair, which doubles as a love seat, and a bookshelf. When I had to give up the condo I shared with my ex, I moved most of my things into storage, another monthly bill.

Here I have electrical outlets, but I can’t use the blender and the light at the same time. Ask me how I know. There’s only one small mirror, which is more than enough to check to see if my blonde curly hair has decided to behave today. I shower in the main house, use the bathroom facilities, and eat dinner with the family every night.

Not going to lie. Living in my abuelita’s backyard took some getting used to. This used to be a garden and tool shed, but it’s always had windows. Two of them, now decorated with yellow and white frilly curtains that cheer me up. My Tio Eddie emptied the tools, lawn mower, and potting soil, painted and cleaned, and suggested I live there until I got back on my feet after Chris abandoned me. He left me six months ago, get this, to join the Peace Corps. No explanation but the desire to “give back.” Barely enough notice to let our guests know the wedding would be canceled. Jerk.

Later that day, I check in with Abuelita. Eddie is at work in San Francisco at his dentistry office, so it’s just the two of us. I sort through the mail that comes to the main house because asking them to deliver it to a shed would be too confusing. Packages are another story but you should have seen the look on the UPS guy when he delivered a box of books to the shed.

It was nice of Eddie to convert the garden shed to a living space for me, but I have to confess that moving here feels like the physical representation of how badly my life is progressing so far. Not how I expected.

By now, I thought I’d be published, but so far, no one wants my romance novel so I continue to pay the bills by ghostwriting vampire romance for the estate of the late Desdemona Hill.

Abuelita pats the couch after she says hello. “Come sit and watch the telenovela with me.”

I’m not a fan and she usually watches these with Eddie, but I plop down on the couch beside her. “Good news. I got a second job.”

“Bueno,” she says, eyes riveted to the screen.

She’s lying. If left to her own devices, my grandmother would keep me here with her forever. She wanted me to take the only spare bedroom available since Eddie moved in to take care of her. But I don’t want to get too comfortable and complacent here.

She points to the screen. “Ay bendito, probecita. She lost her memory.”

“Didn’t Jessica also lose her memory?” I squint. How many times can they use this particular trope on the same show?

“No, no.” Abuelita points to her temple. “Jessica said she lost her memory, but she was pretending.”

“Ah, si.” This makes all the sense in the world to my grandmother.

“This way, she can stop the divorce from Manuel, the only man she has ever loved.” She clasps her hands to her chest. “He can’t divorce her when she doesn’t remember anything.”

It’s entirely possible I got my romantic streak from her. I still believe in true love even after my latest disaster. My parents had the greatest love story. He brought her flowers every day, called her “mi amor” and I caught them more than once dancing in the kitchen without music. That’s what I want. Nothing less than true love. The love of my life. I refuse to settle.

Even if my parents’ love story ended tragically, I’ve always wanted what they had together but without the sad ending. It’s the reason I write romance. Everyone in my books gets a happy ending.

I watch the rest of the telenovela with Abuelita, and promise her I’ll come back later to eat dinner with her and Eddie. But I need to settle in to write my daily word count on my latest vampire book. I’ve reached the proverbial soggy middle so it’s time to bring in more obstacles from the plot outline. These books are such fun to write that I’ll usually produce several pages before realizing it. Once I turn this book in, I’ll get the next royalty advance and be able to finish paying off the late fees on the wedding venue we didn’t cancel in time.

After getting halfway through my word count, I check email and find one from an agent I queried two years ago. The email, which not shockingly is a rejection, is standard for me:

Thank you for sharing your novel with me. You have a real gift for prose, and the characters jump off the page. Ultimately, I did not connect with the story the way I would have liked, so I’m going to pass. I wish you luck in your future publishing endeavors.

Traditional publishing moves at a snail’s pace but this is ridiculous.

At writer conferences I’ve learned this is agent-speak for: I don’t know how to sell your book. Even if I’m better off without an agent who can’t do what I need her to do, the rejection stings, even with compliments. It always makes me think there’s something I’m missing if the prose is good and the characters are fleshed out. Maybe I’m the problem. It’s the story of my life.

Maybe what I’m missing, ironically enough, is inexperience. I’m told by one of Desdemona’s former ghostwriters who quit to self-publish her own books, that rather than help, ghostwriting is something to overcome. Now that she’s self-publishing with some success, she’s had interest from New York. Apparently editors do not have a lot of faith in someone who writes a book when given existing characters with a back story, a decent plot, and a built-in audience.

Or maybe they’d just like us to stay in our lane.

The most frustrating part of ghostwriting is the non-disclosure agreements. No one can know anything specific about the book I’m writing, or even that I’m often writing bestselling books. For me, ghostwriting has paid the bills in an uncertain publishing landscape. Sometimes I think I’ve traded security for my dream but I’m comfortable with anonymity. My nightmare scenario would be a huge book tour and television appearances. Yes, the sales and peer acknowledgment would be nice but only if I can enjoy it from the comfort of my home.

There’s another email from my best friend in the writing world, Holly, whom I met years ago at a romance writer conference. She’s arguably my friend even if we see each other via the screen most of the time. It’s always been tough for me to make long-lasting friendships and it’s been a while since we connected because I’m feeling self-conscious about my background being a shed.

Like me, Holly has been writing for years without any success. Unlike me, she’s never tried ghostwriting and makes her living as a high school teacher. She lives in Missouri, so we only see each other at the occasional writer conference, but mostly online when we both celebrate the little wins. She knows I’m a ghostwriter but keeps pushing me to write more of my own books. I’ve written the one, and with all the rejections I worry the thing agents are not telling me is that my work is derivative and I’ve yet to find my own voice.

To: theghostwriter@hotmail

From: inthequerytrenches@yahoo

Hope you’re doing well. Just checking in. What’s your progress? Any more revisions done or have you started something new? Remember, start something new, and that way if you sell this one, another one will already be in line. I wanted to tell you I’m halfway through my latest and entered a contest. Fingers crossed because I’ll get in front of my dream agent if I final in my category.

Too bad I have nothing of note to report. Holly is always way ahead of me, filled with inspiration and a sense of confidence I envy. Imposter syndrome? That’s not a thing to her. She works all day, is mother to three, wife of one, and writes late into the night. She’s a powerhouse and I know one day soon she’ll be published due to her tenacity alone.

What am I supposed to tell Holly? As writers, we always present our best self to the world. On social media, we’re happy, joyful, and busy. Real life is another story, where you can often find me in a fetal position, munching on chocolate after my latest rejection. Nobody wants a photo of that.

Should I tell her my wedding is off? If I do, she’ll send me all these sad face emojis. I’ve had enough pity from my family.

To: inthequerytrenches@yahoo

From: theghostwriter@hotmail

All is well, though wedding preparations are certainly taking a lot of my time! Funny, I just got a rejection today from an agent I queried two years ago. Um, guess she’s been busy. All the usual lingo about how great it is but just isn’t for her.

Do you think they’re just lying to me? What’s the point?

It’s hard to feel too sad when I am getting married to the love of my life!

As I’ve said before, Chris is the perfect romance hero. I’m pretty much writing every book about him. I have so much material, it’s hard to narrow it down.

Is it lying, or is it fiction?

Sometimes I don’t know the difference.