The character will have some really physical job—banging nails or pouring concrete.
Driving a backhoe. For weeks, all you will see are backhoes.
You will ask your writing mates to read the story. They are seasoned writers and editors, familiar with your work, and you trust them to give you great input.
Meanwhile, you will sell the story to a lit magazine. When your friends show up with pages of notes, you will say, “Thanks, but I already sold that story. Would you like a beer?”
They will drink all of your beer and also have their sweet revenge.
Because no short story is perfect (unless Dagoberto Gilb wrote it).
Your friends will drink your beer and eat the kiss-up pizza you got for them, while they tactfully point out all the things that are still wrong with your story that’s going to get published.
You will go to bed but not sleep a wink over that tired phrase you used in the third paragraph. You’ll get up and write a long e-mail to the magazine editor asking if you can change a line or two, and how about that part where instead of going to the library the character goes to see the Dakota who runs the junkyard? What if tension isn’t building quickly enough in the front of the story, so can you cut some lines to get to the dramatics quicker? And the epiphany is implied but not obvious. Is that okay or should you add a line at the end to clarify?
You will not send the e-mail for fear that the editor will agree to the point of changing her mind about publishing the story.
You will instead e-mail your friends and apologize profusely for not waiting to receive their advice before sending off your story. Your flawed little story.
Your friends will forgive you, because they are classy and wonderful and truly your friends.
You will feel alternately joyful and embarrassed that your flawed little story will soon be in print.
You will vow to never, ever make that mistake again or to treat your friends so poorly.
And you will keep writing, because that is all you know to do, and now all you see are girls with suitcases.