Page 103 of Book Boyfriends
AN OUTDOORSY GIRL?
After dinner, Davis cleaned up and then appeared with popcorn, gluten free Oreos, and two diet sodas. Despite being full from our meal, there’s something about movies that brings out the snacker in both of us. Snuggled close on the outdoor sofa, we munch on the popcorn from the shared bowl in my lap and watchStar Trek: Generations.
“Do you ever think you’ll write a Sci-Fi romance?” he asks as the credits roll on the screen.
“I’m not sure what I’ll write next…orif I will,” I say, my voice quiet.
Even after the talk with Doc this week, I’m still stuck. This morning, before everything, I sat on my couch with my laptop, and nothing came. Each idea I considered just wandered in my mind, without forming sentences or paragraphs, let alone an entire chapter. I thought that by letting go of the expectations for what I believed I needed to do, that it would free the stories within me. But they remain locked away.
“Maybe my stories really are gone,” I whisper my confession.
“That can’t be true.” His mouth purses. “The force is too strong with you. Even if you hadn’t been the Yoda to my romance education, your passion and talent oozes from everypage of your books.” Forehead creased, he sits up. “Is it because of this situation? Because of Lord Fuckwad?”
“First, blasphemy. You do not makeStar Warsreferences while we’re watchingStar Trek.” My tap on his chest is playful. “No, this we can’t blame on James. I’ve been blocked for months. Every time I start something, it just doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t work?”
“The ending.” Sighing, I lean against the sofa cushion. “When I write a book, it’s like watching a movie in reverse. The ending comes first, and then I reverse engineer the story to get there.”
“And that’s not working?”
“No,” I whine. “I’ve started four different manuscripts in the last six months with no progress beyond the first twenty thousand words.”
His brow dips. “Do all writers start with the ending?”
“Every writer does things a little differently. Your grandpa thinks that my intense focus on the ending is what’s blocking me. That I should let the story just breathe and listen to what it has to say to me.” I scoff a laugh. “It’s silly, but I hoped letting go of the expectations in my actual life about how things should end might free the words. Like they were blocked because I was blocked in my own life by the concept of endings. Like going to Lena and Will’s wedding to show that I’m over what happened and complete that heartbreak to badass arc…” I motion between us, “…or by pausing my life to figure out how to fulfill an accidental wish.”
Nodding, he seems to consider something before speaking, “I don’t write books, but I do write code, so I get it. With apps, we start with what we want it to do and work backwards.”
“And what happens if you get stuck?”
“We try to figure it out, but if we can’t, we tweak the final product. If the coding isn’t there yet, it doesn’t mean the app won’t work. We just adjust what it will look like.”
“The app serves the code, not the code serving the app,” I mutter.
“Huh?” He tilts his head.
“It’s something your grandfather said about the ending serving the story versus the story serving the ending.”
“Pop and his sage advice.” He smirks. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think starting with the end is the issue, but not being open to tweaking that ending may be. Let that ending inspire you to start the story, and then let that story reveal itself to you. It may surprise you and be far more than what you’d originally thought.”
I can’t help but think of my book boyfriends at this moment. All three men are different from what I wrote for them. Both Lars and Owen express a desire for a happy ending different than what I wrote. The stories I wrote aren’t bad, they’re just not their stories.
Neither is the story I wrote about Davis. After I walked out on him at Fisher’s Landing, I thought he’d just be a footnoted bad date.
“I have a recent appreciation of stories turning out differently than I thought,” I say, my voice is breathy.
“Yeah.” He leans close, and playful wickedness flashes in his beautiful eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, every drop of tension dissolves into the ooey gooeyness inside me. This man.
Something about the way Davis looks at me feels like a warm embrace, as if his strong arms had already enveloped me. This man is quickly becoming my comfort food. His presence is both nourishing and decadent.
“It may not seem like it now, but I believe you have many stories still in there, and I know you’ll be able to hear them… when you’re ready.” He nuzzles his nose along my jawline. “Just don’t write anymore dukes.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “Deal.”
“Deal.” He presses a string of gentle kisses from my chin to the corners of my mouth until he captures my lips in a slow embrace.
