Write. Eat. Repeat.

Chapter 1: Regular

There's a squish and my foot shoots forward, nearly taking me with it. I cling to my laptop and purse, attempting to regain balance, and glancing down to see half of a sloppy-joe oozing over the side of my designer white suede heels. 

"You got to be kidding me."

I spent a month's pay on these pumps–they're the nicest thing I own.

I read just my armload into one hand, brush a loose red curl behind my ear, slip out of the shoe catastrophe, and hop my way over to a picnic table. The park is full of brightly painted food-trucks, and crowds of people waiting to taste samples. It's also full of little kids running around touching everything with sticky fingers. I take off my scarf and lay it on the bench. I don't want my cute yellow sundress to get dirty too.

This is not what I imagined when I moved to New York. I should be interviewing designers about their latest runway shows, not writing about the food-truck fair. Fashion journalism was always my dream, but being a cook to pay my way through university got me a job as a food columnist for MAGi -- a trendy fashion, food, and culture magazine. All I have to do is impress my editor and maybe, if a job opens in fashion, I could get in. But impressing Frank – a veteran journalist who once interviewed the president – would be a lot easier if I wasn't always given the hand-me-down stories.

I hold the heel as far away as possible, shaking it like a dirty rag, and trying not to get anymore red meat sauce on my clothes. I'm a mess, my story is a mess, and now my plan of consigning these heels to help pay rent is a mess.

Things couldn't possibly get worse.

Then my phone rings – and it's Frank. I know because the ringtone for his calls is the Mission Impossible theme song.

I set down the shoe, dig through my purse for the phone, and take a deep breath.

"Hi Frank –"

"Got your article on the food fair."

I glance over at the colorful array of trucks and people in the park before me. "I'm just finishing up–"

"Complete rubbish."

"What? I...." It wasn't my best work, I'll admit it. But what does he expect from the topic?

He sighs heavy into the phone. "Listen Ava, you're a nice kid. But the work you've been handing in lately, it's not fit for MAGi. We want fun, fresh, on-trend stories."

I want to scream, You sent me to write about mobile food! How is that fun? But I don't because I'm too busy staring at the meat covered shoe imagining it's my career. To make matters worse, without the heels to sell, or a pay-check, I won't be able to afford rent.

"I'll write something else, I can do better. I–"

"Write whatever you want, just have it on my desk first thing tomorrow." He sighs again, and I picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose like he does when he thinks too hard. "Listen Ava, this is your last chance. Show me what the passionate, tenacious Ava Woods I first hired is capable of."

I swallow the lump creeping up my throat. "And if I can't?"

"I'm sorry. But we won't have a place for you with MAGi."

Oh.

I chuck the phone in my purse, not even sure I ended the call. I grab the meat shoe, slip out of my other one, and start racing, nylon-footed, the three blocks to my apartment. My hands are full of shoes, bag, laptop–I probably look like I robbed someone.