Page 6 of Gone for the Ghost
“She’swallowing,” Julian corrects with the kind of blunt honesty that should offend me but instead makes me want to improve.“Emotions become interesting when they drive behavior, not when they’re simply catalogued for the reader’s convenience.”
The devastating thing about Julian’s critique is that he’s absolutely right.Again.It’s been like this for two weeks now—him identifying problems I didn’t even realize existed, me implementing his suggestions and watching my manuscript transform into something that actually resembles professional fiction.
Under his relentless guidance, Ava has evolved from generic romance heroine into someone with genuine depth and agency.Her relationship with the love interest has developed layers of complexity I never knew I was capable of writing.Even the supporting characters have started feeling like real people instead of convenient plot devices.
“What does she want in this scene?”Julian asks, the question he poses whenever I get lost in psychological meandering.“Not what she thinks she should want, not what would be convenient for your plot… What does she actually want?”
It’s become his signature phrase, the key that unlocks every scene I struggle with.What does she want?Simple question, devastatingly effective results.
“She wants to stop being afraid,” I say, studying the paragraph that’s been giving me trouble for three days.“She wants to take a risk that actually matters instead of playing it safe and wondering what might have been.”
“Better.Now show me that want through her choices, not through her navel-gazing.”
I delete half the paragraph and start over, this time focusing on Ava’s decision to apply for the job that terrifies her, the way her hands shake as she fills out the application, the moment when she forces herself to hit “submit” despite every rational argument against taking such a risk.
“Much improved,” Julian says when I read the revised passage aloud, and the warmth of his approval settles in my chest like sunshine.“You’re learning to trust your reader’s intelligence.”
The praise shouldn’t matter as much as it does.Julian is a ghost with strong opinions about comma usage—hardly the literary establishment I’m trying to impress.But somehow his approval has become more important to me than any agent’s acceptance letter or editor’s feedback.He sees the story I’m trying to tell, understands the heart of what I’m attempting to create in ways that make me feel like maybe I actually know what I’m doing.
“I should get out of the apartment,” I announce, saving my document with the satisfaction of someone who’s accomplished actual work.“Real world research.See how actual people interact, maybe get some inspiration for authentic dialogue.”
“An excellent idea,” Julian agrees.“Your characters could benefit from observing genuine human behavior instead of relying on whatever passes for romance in those novels you insist on using as reference material.”
I shoot him a look.We’ve had this argument before.His conviction that romance novels are formulaic drivel versus my belief that they’re hopeful stories about human connection.But something is different in his tone today, less dismissive superiority and more genuine interest in my creative process.
“Want to come with me?”I ask and then immediately wonder why I invited him.The farmers market is hardly the kind of place you bring your supernatural roommate, especially when you’re supposedly conducting research on normal human courtship behaviors.
“I suppose I could provide educational commentary,” he says with the carefully neutral tone he uses when he’s trying to hide how much something interests him.
The market bustles with the kind of small-town energy that makes me believe in community and connection.Vendors chat with customers about family recipes and growing conditions, children chase each other between stalls while parents exchange knowing looks, and the overall atmosphere radiates the kind of authentic warmth that my urban experience never provided.
“Fascinating social dynamics,” Julian murmurs beside me, somehow managing to seem both present and invisible as we move through the crowd.“The economic exchange is almost secondary to the relationship building.”
I’m examining a display of handcrafted jewelry when a handsome man appears beside me, all sandy hair and genuine smile, carrying the kind of confidence that comes from someone comfortable in their own skin.
“You must be new in town,” he says, and his voice carries the kind of warmth that immediately puts people at ease.“I’m Blake.”
“Lily,” I respond, accepting his handshake and noting the callused strength that speaks to actual physical work rather than gym membership.“Just moved here a couple of weeks ago.”
“He’s interested,” Julian’s voice says directly in my ear, making me struggle to maintain appropriate facial expressions.“Note the body language—open posture, sustained eye contact, the slight lean that indicates attraction.”
I try to ignore my invisible commentary while Blake explains his family’s farming operation, but Julian’s observations prove surprisingly helpful.When Blake mentions the heirloom tomatoes his grandmother’s been growing for forty years, Julian notes the significance.
“He’s sharing family history—indicating long-term thinking and desire to build genuine connection rather than pursue superficial interaction.”
Despite Julian’s running analysis, I find myself genuinely charmed by Blake’s passion for his work.He talks about soil composition and growing techniques with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discussing art or music, and something’s appealing about someone who’s found meaningful work that connects him to both family legacy and community service.
“Try this,” Blake says, offering me a slice of tomato that’s still warm from the sun.“It’ll change your entire understanding of what tomatoes are supposed to taste like.”
The fruit bursts with flavor that tastes like summer itself—sweet, acidic, complex in ways that grocery store vegetables never achieve.My reaction must show on my face because Blake’s smile widens with obvious pleasure.
“He’s demonstrating provider instincts,” Julian continues with his educational commentary.“The gift is small but meaningful, ensuring you’ll associate him with positive sensory experience while showing he has something valuable to offer.”
“That’s incredible,” I tell Blake, meaning it completely.“I had no idea tomatoes could taste so incredible.”
“Family secrets,” Blake says with the kind of pride that suggests he’s sharing something genuinely important to him.“Would you like to see the farm sometime?We do tours during harvest season, and the sunset views are worth the drive.”
The invitation hangs between us, sweet and hopeful and exactly the kind of normal romantic progression I moved to Maplewood Grove hoping to find.Blake represents everything sensible about starting over—stability, kindness, the possibility of building something real with someone who exists in the same dimension I do.
