Page 39 of Guys Can't Write Romance
“It’s simple, actually. There’s an energy in this place. The trick is to channel it into your writing to give it a punch.”
“I think you’re channeling too much of that energy into your writing.”
“There’s no such thing. That’s like saying a girl’s too hot.”
And yet again, Daisy rolled her eyes. “What if I don’t want my writing to have a punch?”
“You may not, but your readers do. They know when the writer had fun writing the story, versus just going through the motions.”
“You think I just go through the motions?”
“I think you limit yourself to something that feels safe.”
She studied him for a moment, surprised that he actually put some thought into this. A nearby table erupted in raucous laughter. Despite the noise, she found herself genuinely intrigued by Chad’s perspective.
“Let’s suppose for a minute that I have a massive lapse of judgment and try this, how do we do it?”
“For starters, you sit. The bench isn’t going to bite you.”
She looked down at the sticky varnish, flaked in sand and calamari crumbs. A suspicious dark stain marked one corner of the bench. “No. But it might not let me get back up.”
Chad slid her a stack of napkins that she used to wipe it off, methodically cleaning a small section of the bench with the precision of someone disarming a bomb. Then she slowly sat down like she was sitting on a hot stove.
Chad watched her with amusement. “You gonna be okay?”
“That’s yet to be determined. So, if I’m going to participate in this lab experiment you call an office, let’s set some ground rules.”
“Buzzkill.”
She smirked. “Rule one. Keep your snacks on your side of the table. Rule two. No obnoxious burping. Rule three... actually, let’s just start with those two and see how long you last.”
“It won’t be long. Want some calamari?” he said, nodding to the basket of questionable-looking calamari. “It’s mostly fresh.”
“Rule one?” she reminded him.
“I’ll keep the basket on my side of the table.”
“My stomach would never forgive me.” She eyed the golden rings suspiciously. “In fact, I think it just filed a preemptive restraining order.”
“How about a beer?”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“And that’s bad because...?”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“Which makes it the perfect time for some liquid creativity. Hemingway wrote in bars, you know. And I’m pretty sure Jimmy Buffett did too.”
“Hemingway also chain-smoked cigars for breakfast. And before you ask, no, I don’t want a cigar either.”
“Your loss. But there’s a method to this madness you’re missing out on.”
“Enlighten me.” Daisy leaned forward, unconsciously avoiding contact with the sticky table. A group of surfers walked by, tracking sand onto the patio, and she winced internally.
“Beer gets you out of the self-critical stage. You know that feeling when you’re just staring at a blank page and can’t think of what to write, so you don’t write anything?”
“Like you in the library?”
