Read Online Hello, Hollywood! by Janice Thompson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janice Thompson
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straightening out that fiasco, I headed to the car and drove to Super-Gyros, ready to put last night’s craziness behind me. With each new day came new blessings. Right?
Moments later, I joined the rest of my family behind the counter. The familiar scent of peppers, onions, and spices almost roused me from my daze. Almost. At least I felt at home at the shop. I was among my own people, people who didn’t care if I could make them laugh or not.
Aunt Melina sat in the play area with the kids, her trusty coffee mug at her side. I knew it didn’t really contain coffee. Well, not much. She often flavored her real beverage of choice with a bit of coffee. Probably to disguise the truth. I had to wonder how long she could go on hiding her real issues from the world. Did she even want help, or had she grown content in her pain?
I went to work on the phyllo dough, remembering my middle-of-the-night ponderings. Maybe that bakery idea wasn’t such a bad one after all. I’d try to sneak away after the lunch crowd left to check out the empty space on the other end of the strip mall. Maybe I’d even take Mama with me. See what she thought about the idea. Surely she’d have a lot of advice about baking. And she certainly knew the ins and outs of running a business.
Oh, who was I kidding? I couldn’t bake baklava for a living. God had called me to write, and write I must. Hadn’t every writer who’d ever pounded the keys gone through something like this? Surely my insecurities were ill-founded. Yes, of course they were. Why, in a day or two, I’d be over this. Hopefully.
Hey, here’s an idea. Who says I have to write sitcoms? I can always get work at the newspaper. Put out a few magazine articles. Well, sure. Newspapers are always looking for writers.
But what if I ended up writing for one of those gossip magazines? My fiction-telling skills were good . . . but not that good. Besides, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to exaggerate the truth. Unless . . .
An idea took hold, one I couldn’t ignore. Maybe I could write a book. Yeah, I could write a book. A murder mystery about a Las Vegas comic who turned up missing after moving to L.A.
Nah. The publishers would never buy it. Too predictable.
What was up with these neurotic notions rolling through my brain? Hadn’t I spent the wee hours of the night praying about all of this? Hadn’t I given my worries to God? He probably wouldn’t take kindly to my current train of thought or the fact that I still seemed to be in fix-it mode.
Lord, help me. I’m trying to take my hands off. Really.
“You okay, Athena-bean?” My father looked my way, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You . . . well, you don’t look like yourself today.”
Ugh. I’d hoped a pound and a half of makeup would’ve disguised that fact.
“I’m okay, Babbas.” A tiny sigh escaped, one I hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Just a few problems at the office.”
“Again?” My father took a couple of steps in my direction. “They treat my daughter badly?”
“No, not really. I just . . .” I felt the sting of tears. “I’m just not sure about my job security anymore. What happens if they boot me out the door? Then what?”
“Ah. Is that all?” He slipped me into a warm embrace. “It’s okay, Athena-bean. You can come work for Babbas. All the gyros you can eat and good company too.” He flashed a toothy smile. “And we have a great dental program.”
Great. Just what I’d always hoped for. A great dental program. With all the pastries I planned to consume to drown my woes, I’d probably need it.
“We’ll talk later, Babbas,” I said, then gave him a little kiss on the cheek. One thing about my father, he sure knew how to make a girl forget about her troubles. I’d found him to be the perfect counterbalance to the guys at the office, who loved nothing more than pointing them out.
Elbow-deep in phyllo dough, I shifted gears, determined to put my worries behind me. Off in the
Moments later, I joined the rest of my family behind the counter. The familiar scent of peppers, onions, and spices almost roused me from my daze. Almost. At least I felt at home at the shop. I was among my own people, people who didn’t care if I could make them laugh or not.
Aunt Melina sat in the play area with the kids, her trusty coffee mug at her side. I knew it didn’t really contain coffee. Well, not much. She often flavored her real beverage of choice with a bit of coffee. Probably to disguise the truth. I had to wonder how long she could go on hiding her real issues from the world. Did she even want help, or had she grown content in her pain?
I went to work on the phyllo dough, remembering my middle-of-the-night ponderings. Maybe that bakery idea wasn’t such a bad one after all. I’d try to sneak away after the lunch crowd left to check out the empty space on the other end of the strip mall. Maybe I’d even take Mama with me. See what she thought about the idea. Surely she’d have a lot of advice about baking. And she certainly knew the ins and outs of running a business.
Oh, who was I kidding? I couldn’t bake baklava for a living. God had called me to write, and write I must. Hadn’t every writer who’d ever pounded the keys gone through something like this? Surely my insecurities were ill-founded. Yes, of course they were. Why, in a day or two, I’d be over this. Hopefully.
Hey, here’s an idea. Who says I have to write sitcoms? I can always get work at the newspaper. Put out a few magazine articles. Well, sure. Newspapers are always looking for writers.
But what if I ended up writing for one of those gossip magazines? My fiction-telling skills were good . . . but not that good. Besides, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to exaggerate the truth. Unless . . .
An idea took hold, one I couldn’t ignore. Maybe I could write a book. Yeah, I could write a book. A murder mystery about a Las Vegas comic who turned up missing after moving to L.A.
Nah. The publishers would never buy it. Too predictable.
What was up with these neurotic notions rolling through my brain? Hadn’t I spent the wee hours of the night praying about all of this? Hadn’t I given my worries to God? He probably wouldn’t take kindly to my current train of thought or the fact that I still seemed to be in fix-it mode.
Lord, help me. I’m trying to take my hands off. Really.
“You okay, Athena-bean?” My father looked my way, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You . . . well, you don’t look like yourself today.”
Ugh. I’d hoped a pound and a half of makeup would’ve disguised that fact.
“I’m okay, Babbas.” A tiny sigh escaped, one I hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Just a few problems at the office.”
“Again?” My father took a couple of steps in my direction. “They treat my daughter badly?”
“No, not really. I just . . .” I felt the sting of tears. “I’m just not sure about my job security anymore. What happens if they boot me out the door? Then what?”
“Ah. Is that all?” He slipped me into a warm embrace. “It’s okay, Athena-bean. You can come work for Babbas. All the gyros you can eat and good company too.” He flashed a toothy smile. “And we have a great dental program.”
Great. Just what I’d always hoped for. A great dental program. With all the pastries I planned to consume to drown my woes, I’d probably need it.
“We’ll talk later, Babbas,” I said, then gave him a little kiss on the cheek. One thing about my father, he sure knew how to make a girl forget about her troubles. I’d found him to be the perfect counterbalance to the guys at the office, who loved nothing more than pointing them out.
Elbow-deep in phyllo dough, I shifted gears, determined to put my worries behind me. Off in the
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