“You can’t start a story with a flashback,” she snapped, “And you damn sure can’t start it with dialogue!” Unfazed by her full on negative Nancy vibe, I kept writing. If there was only one benefit to being best friends for the last 20 years, it was knowing how to get under each other’s skin. I took pleasure in knowing I could aggravate her with nothing more than a glance or facial expression. The coffee shop smelled like roasted beans and nostalgia. It had been been our spot for the length of our friendship.

I stirred my cappuccino absentmindedly, staring at the soft glow of the computer in front of me. On the screen in front of me was the beginning stages of the first draft of my next novel. Beside that was my notebook filled with scene and dialogue ideas. Across from me, Claire sipped her drink, her sharp eyes scanning my notes with the precision of a surgeon.

“It’s not going to make sense!” I shrugged my shoulders as I kept frantically pounding away at the keys. I could see the anger and frustration bubbling up inside of her. I glanced up and caught her staring at all the people full engrossed into screens round us in the busy Starbucks. “So you’re just not going to listen to me at all?!”

I peeked up from behind my MacBook only to let her know that I wasn’t unintentionally ignoring her, then rolled my eyes at her. The look of disgust that exploded onto her face let me know that she fully understood my intentions.

“For someone who’s so damn smart, you act like a fucking idiot!” I pulled my hands from the keyboard and let out a heavy sigh. For as much as I loved getting under my best friend’s skin, I valued her opinion even more.

“Fine. Why can’t I start a story with a flashback? Or dialogue?”

She placed her venti half-caff caramel macchiato on the table in front of her and grabbed my laptop. “Well first of all, it’ll confuse the reader, right? How will they know when the story actually started?”

“That’s why they have to keep reading, Claire. Allow the story to develop. This is a novel, not the Sunday morning comics.”

“Well, I think it sounds stupid, but you’re the writer. I’m just here to keep you focused.” I hated it when she said things like that. It made me feel like one of those kids you see out in public that are on a leash. I didn’t need someone to reign me in. Just needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

“And this female lead of yours,” she started back up, as she thumbed through my notes, “She’s… what’s the word I’m looking for, Ethan? Unbearable!” Her newest critique landed with the subtlety of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. I was rendered briefly speechless, only able to communicate through wildly blinking. “Unbearable?!” The word came flying out of my mouth like projectile vomit.

“She doesn’t feel real. She’s too perfect, too composed. It’s like you’re afraid to let her be messy, vulnerable, real. And don’t get me started on the dialogue.” I let out a slow breath as I searched for the right response. “Claire, you know I value your opinion, but…”

“Do you?!” Her eyebrow arched. “Because this feels like your writing a fantasy of a woman, not an actual person.”

I couldn’t help but frown, so I took a sip of my coffee to buy myself some time. Claire had always been brutally honest, it was one of the main reasons our friendship worked so well. She never sugarcoated anything, and she would rather die than allow me to slip into her complacency. Her words, not mine. But there were times that her bluntness was down right infuriating.

“I just think,” she continued, spinning the MacBook around to face her, “that you’re playing it safe. Don’t get me wrong, Ethan. You’re a wonderful writer. You weave these incredible worlds filled with spies and high-stakes drama, but sometimes your characters, especially the women, don’t always feel… fully fleshed out.”

I ran my hand across my freshly shaven head. “So what? You want her to be more flawed? More complicated?”

“I want her to be more human.” Claire slid the laptop to the side and leaned forward on her forearms. “You know what your best characters all have in common? They make mistakes. They contradict themselves. They don’t always say the perfect line at the perfect time. Real people stammer, hesitate, say the wrong thing, regret it later.”

I couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “You mean like us?”

“Exactly like us!” An enormous grin pushed her cheeks up to her eyes. “Look, I’m not saying its bad and you know how brilliant I think you are. But sometimes, you hold back. I’m not really sure why. But if you hold back in storytelling, what’s the point of doing it?”

I let out a heavy sigh and stared down at my notes. Claire’s words stung like a bitch, but they also settled somewhere deep in my subconscious. And that’s when the voice in my head decided to chime in. She’s right, you know. I took a breath, closed my notebook, and slid it across the table to her. “Okay then. Show me where she falls apart.” An even bigger smile exploded across Claire’s face as she cracked her knuckles. “Oh, you’re going to regret this.”