Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“Was she right?”
I nod.
“Well, what are your characters fighting for?”
I run a mental tally of my books. “Let’s see. Survival. Protecting innocents. Revenge. Saving the world. Some of those get doubled up, depending on the story.”
“And your heroes have no family?”
“If they do, they’re always estranged.” I shrug. “I write loners.”
“But if that’s what you’re good at…do you really intend to change what you’re doing based on one review?”
“Not because of the review, but because I think she’s right. My books are missing something.”
Abbie stares off into the distance, as if she’s thinking it over. “But is love really that necessary for a good story?” she finally says. “In Alien, no one loved each other. They were just all friends and colleagues. Even in the second movie, there’s the little girl who stands in for a daughter, but I’m not sure Ripley actually loves her. Cares for her, yes. Feels responsible for her, yes. And maybe there’s love between some of the Marines—like the kind of love that’s between brothers—but if there is, it’s never explored that deeply.”
“I agree it’s not necessary in every story. Maybe not even necessary in six stories.” I glance at the six books on Harris’s shelf, telling her exactly which ones I’m talking about. “But when I think of my own favorites…yeah. It’s there. Sometimes love for a child, sometimes for a romantic partner. One is love for a dog. So I think that my own can be better—and it’ll add that extra danger and emotional punch. I’m not satisfied with just being good enough.”
Especially when I know my work could be something more. When I could be something more. I’d already been considering this, ever since I read that review. But especially after meeting Abbie, it feels even more important. It’s not enough to coast along as I have been.
She regards me, her gaze shining with admiration. “So you want more.”
“Yeah, I want more. Not more money or to sell more, though I wouldn’t cry over that. But just to look at my work and say that it’s better than it was.”
With a glance back at her easel, she says, “I know that feeling very well.”
“You might also know my current feeling of thinking that I’ve created an absolute pile of shit.”
She laughs. “I’m familiar with that, too.”
I lie on the floor again, willing my brain to start working. “I just don’t know how to describe what’s missing. I don’t even think I’ve ever felt it.”
“You’ve never loved anyone? Or felt loved?”
“No.”
“I...” She trails off with a frown. “That’s sad.”
“So are my books, apparently.”
She huffs out a laugh. “What are you doing to fix it? Are you working in a romantic relationship for your main character—or adding a family member? A friend?”
“I gave her a kid. That seems simplest.”
“A kid? Is there anyone in the lover category?”
“He’s already dead. I still need that grief to have any emotional depth,” I say bitterly.
“Did you let that line get to you? Stop it.” She nudges my shoulder. “Change it up and make it a divorce. Make her grieve a relationship, but not the person. Maybe she’s glad to be rid of him.”
“Huh. Divorce is a pretty good idea.” I’m already working that through. “Then I can kill the ex in the sewer scene instead of using the neighbor.”
“Will it have more impact on the heroine that way?”
“Yeah.”
“That sounds like a winner, then. So what else are you struggling with?”
“I suppose it’s the components of how she feels about her kid. And at what point all those components become something called love.”
“Just say she loves the kid.”
“I like to be precise. You love the smell of pine. You also love a cat. The words are the same but they don’t mean the same thing.”
“Ah. You don’t make things easy on yourself.”
“Your work would also be easier if you didn’t bother to get the lighting and shading right.”
“Touché.” She stretches out on the floor next to me, then scoots in to use my shoulder as a pillow. “So how old is the kid?”
“Five. Old enough to hide when I need him out of the way, not old enough to survive on his own. Why?”
“Because the components are different. For a baby or a toddler, there’s not going to be the aspect of friendship that might develop between, say, a teenager and his mother. What about your mom? When you were five—or later—you didn’t feel like she loved you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she did.” I pause as Hot Biscuit Slim decides to join us, ambling up onto my chest. “I don’t recall her being very affectionate. But I also remember my dad telling her not to coddle me. So maybe she tried, and I just don’t remember.”
“And you don’t love your dad?”
“No.”
“Did you ever?”
“I don’t think so. Do you love your mom?”