Page 19 of Love is an Open Book
He rakes a hand through his damp hair, and I catch the comforting scent of the body wash–shampoo combo he’s used since college. “All of this seems a lot more complicated than going on a few dates. I’ve been thinking... The other day when you brought this up, it wasn’t just for the sake of switching up your routine in hopes of getting unstuck. You planned to go on actual dates, with men you had the potential to start a relationship with. Unlike me,” he adds, glancing away. “And I didn’t mean to...” He faces me again, this time meeting my eyes. “I shouldn’t have tried to convince you not to.”
“I was kind of hoping you would,” I tell him. “I didn’t expect you to offer yourself as sacrifice, but—”
“It’s not a sacrifice, Mia.”
I want to believe him, but part of me feels guilty for pulling him into this. It might have been his idea, but I’m the one who can’t let it go, even though I probably should. “If I’m really going through with this ridiculous scheme to get out of my head, then you’re the only person I want to do it with.”
After a long moment, he says, “All right. So we act out these tropes...” He glances at me as if to confirm he’s used the word properly, and I nod. “And our goal is to help you get to the point where Syd falling in love with Victor doesn’t seem farfetched?”
I know intellectually how to craft a romance plot. How to ignite chemistry and make characters fall in love. I’ve done it a dozen times. But knowing hasn’t helped mebelievethe best friends in this book can successfully make the leap to something more. So maybe this is a tactile sort of learning. Feeling things out. There’s nothing rational about it. And maybe that’s what I need.
All I know is I needsomethingto get past this block. Something more than long walks and new surroundings and music or silence and enough candles to set off the building’s sprinkler system, nearly. I’ve tried all those. I’ve scene-charted and word-webbed and mood-boarded and still, I can’t find the heart of the story.
“I know it’s a weird plan, but I feel excited to write this book for the first time since I shelved it back in college. Maybe it’s time to switch up my process.” I write on a strict schedule. I plot the whole book before I begin, and my outlines are as detailed as many writers’ first drafts.
“What’s wrong with your methods?” Gavin asks.
Lots of authors I know—Evie included—pour out thousands of words before the book takes shape, and that works for them. But rather than coaxing the story out of a messy first draft, I chase down the plot, then drag it kicking and screaming back to my laptop and interrogate it before starting to write. I once used that analogy in an interview and was gently asked by my publicist to refrain from kidnapping analogies.
“I’m a plotter, but sometimes I feel like the pantsers get credit for being more artistic, even though we’re all weaving a story from our imagination.” Seeing his confusion, I explain, “It’s a term for people who write by the seat of their pants, so to speak. They don’t have to know where they’re going before they begin.”
“Everyone has a process. So, what if yours is less starving artist and more—”
“Formulaic?” I cringe, remembering the words of an ex-critique buddy.
He shakes his head. “Structured.” He gestures toward the bookshelf that holds rows and rows of author copies. “People are obsessed with your books for a reason, Mia. Your stories are magic, and if the way you create them is a reliable process, all the better.”
He’s echoing my own convictions, or at least how I used to feel before I got stuck. It’s comforting to have a process that allows me to produce great books. To know that readers will laugh and cry and swoon when they read a Mia Brady novel. But the flip side is, now that my method has failed, I’m doubting my abilities.
“But it’s not working anymore.”
“Which is why you’re thinking outside the box.”
“Or inside the binder.” I waggle my brows at the joke, but Gavin is having none of it.
“Don’t make this nerdier than it is.”
“Nerdy is my wheelhouse.”
“And I love that for you,” he says. “But some of us have a reputation to maintain.”
“As a guy who tucks in his flower beds with blankies before a frost?”
“Good landscaping isn’t sexy?” He quirks a brow, leaving me momentarily speechless, then says, “And I’ve heard people love a man in work boots.”
They do. I’ve written plenty of rugged heroes, and don’t get me started on the way my own heart flutters at the sight, not that I’ll ever admit it to Gavin. “Boots don’t make a man.”
“The shade you’re throwing right now...” He shakes his head.
“Only because you implied nerdiness is unattractive.”
“What?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I said I wasn’t one. Never said I didn’t find it hot.”
Hot. Nerds. Me? Words turn to slush in my brain, an unusual sensation. “You have a thing for nerds? How am I just now hearing of this?”
His cheekbones turn crimson. “It’s not like a woman puts on glasses and—”
Pushing my glasses up, I say a tad defensively, “So all nerds need vision correction?”
