by Becca Kinzer, @BeccaKinzer
One summer, many years ago, I waitressed at a restaurant on the edge of my hometown. It mostly catered to elderly citizens and buffet lovers, but I got to serve in the area known as the Aku Tiki room, so it felt very glamorous. Partly because I was a broke college student and any income sounded glamorous. But mostly because I’d always thought waitresses looked cool. They carried around special notepads. They wore aprons with fun pockets in the front. And they got tips!
I’ll never forget the first table I waitressed. An elderly couple (of course). I wrote down their order on my wonderful special notepad. Then, wearing my wonderful special apron with the pockets, I served them their food. And later, after they left, I raced to the table for my wonderful special tip.
Only to find they’d left me zilch. Zero. Nada. Bupkis. Goose egg. Nothing.
Which left me with one conclusion—I stunk! I had no business being a waitress. I obviously didn’t know what I was doing, even though I’d gone through the training, which meant I was untrainable and there was no point in even trying because this whole thing was a mistake, and I should’ve known better than to think I could ever be a cool waitress in the Aku Tiki room.
To add insult to injury, the girl who bussed tables and had never been all that welcoming to me noticed what happened. She couldn’t wait to tell the other waitresses about how I’d gotten stiffed right out of the gate, taking obvious pleasure in my failure.
What does any of this have to do with writing or publishing?
In a few months my debut novel is getting published. Which means right now early readers are reviewing my story on NetGalley. Which means a few weeks ago I felt like a first-time waitress again, rushing over to the table to see what sort of wonderful tip I got, only to get smacked in the face with a bad review. Which left me with one conclusion.
I stink! I have no business being a writer. I obviously don’t know what I’m doing, even though I’ve been taking classes and studying the craft for years, which means I’m unteachable and there’s no point in even trying because this whole thing was a mistake, and I should’ve known better than to think I could ever be a cool published author.
But then I remembered the rest of my first shift as a waitress. How one of the other waitresses quietly came over to me and said, “Hey. Don’t take it personally. That couple’s been coming in for years and they never tip anyone.”
Really? How quickly my perception changed. And how quickly I discovered that while tips were supposed to reflect the service provided, they often reflected the customers. Their personalities. Their habits. Their perceptions. Whatever mood they happened to be in that day.
Hmm . . . sort of like readers. Which is probably why fellow authors have been trying to tell me from the start, “Hey. Don’t take reviews personally. And since you’re going to struggle to not take them personally, don’t read your reviews. Ever.”
It appears the lessons I learned as a waitress in college are the same lessons I’m needing to learn more than twenty years later as an author. Not everything is about me. I can’t control how people respond. All I can do is serve faithfully and offer my best.
And in the meantime, I can definitely stop reading my reviews.
He thinks she’s an elderly widow. She’s convinced he’s a grumpy old man. Neither could be further from the truth.
After a short and difficult marriage, recently widowed Edith Sherman has learned her lesson. Forget love. Forget marriage. She plans to fill her thirties with adventure. As she awaits the final paperwork for a humanitarian trip to South Africa, she accepts a short-term nursing position in a small Midwestern town. The last thing she needs is a handsome local catching her eye. How inconvenient is that?
Henry Hobbes isn’t exactly thrilled to have Edith, who he assumes is an elderly widow, dumped on him as a houseguest for the summer. But he’d do almost anything for his niece, who is practically like a sister to him given how close they are in age. Especially since Edith will be working nights and Henry works most days. When he and Edith keep missing each other in person, they begin exchanging notes―short messages at first, then longer letters, sharing increasingly personal parts of their lives.
By the time Henry realizes his mistake―that Edith is actually the brown-eyed beauty he keeps bumping into around town―their hearts are so intertwined he hopes they never unravel. But with her departure date rapidly approaching, and Henry’s roots firmly planted at home, Edith must ultimately decide if the adventure of her dreams is the one right in front of her.
Reminiscent of the beloved classic You’ve Got Mail comes a delightful new romantic comedy about mistaken identities, second chances, and finding love in unexpected places.
Becca Kinzer works as a critical care nurse in Illinois. When she’s not taking care of sick (and preferably heavily-sedated) patients or reminding her husband and two kids that frozen chicken nuggets is a gourmet meal in most countries, she spends her time making up lighthearted stories with serious laughs. She is a 2018 First Impressions Contest winner, a 2019 Genesis Contest winner, a 2021 Cascade Writing Contest winner, and all-around champion coffee drinker. Her debut novel releases in early 2023. Enjoy two free novellas when you connect with her at beccakinzer.com.