Love Literary Style Page 3

  “Maybe I’m spelling it wrong? It is T-o-n-y?”

  “You work in a library, and you don’t know who Toni Morrison is?” The girl’s tone was accusatory.

  Laurie had only picked up the library job a little over a month ago, since she’d moved to Atlanta from Swainsboro, Georgia.

  “What kind of books does Toni write? Mysteries, thrillers, sci-fi?”

  “Never mind. I’ll check myself.” The girl disappeared into the stacks, backpack slapping against her shoulder blades.

  She was the last patron in line. Laurie decided to use the afternoon lull to pull up her blog on the computer and dash off a post.

  The Heart Spot, Official Blog of Romance Author Laurie Lee

  Tags: cute, sensitive, warm, muffins

  Hello, my darling readers. Don’t forget tomorrow is Cute Guy of the Week day here at the Heart Spot. This week’s cutie is named Cody, and he’s a firefighter. Wait until you see his dimples. Might turn a few of you into arsonists. (Kidding!!!) But Cody’s not just cute. He also likes to make homemade blueberry muffins and bring them to you as breakfast in bed.

  Romantically yours,

  Laurie Lee

  Laurie borrowed the concept of Cutie of the Week from another romance writer. The other writer called her feature Hunk of the Week, and always posted photos of men with their shirts off. Laurie didn’t care for the naked-chest aspect. All of her cuties were clothed, because wouldn’t you want to know a person before you were confronted with his pectoral muscles?

  Although, the more she learned about romance writing, the more she realized how naive she was about it. The most popular books were filled with steamy sex scenes and had women sleeping with either billionaires or their stepbrothers. Didn’t anyone want to read a romance that featured a man who sent flowers and said heartfelt things like “You’re my everything” instead of “Let me tie you to the bed so I can bludgeon you with a riding crop.”

  But then again, maybe women wanted to be bludgeoned. Laurie wasn’t selling a lot of books, and she suspected her blog readership was small. WordPress provided a stat counter, but she never looked at it, afraid it would discourage her. The indie publishing books all said the same thing: It was a long-tail business, and nothing happened overnight. She was trying to practice patience, which was not one of her strengths. She was ashamed to admit she’d actually bought a few of those racy novels in hopes of spicing up her own novel.

  After work, Laurie checked her mailbox outside the stucco cottage she’d recently subletted and found an envelope from a writers’ colony in the Georgia Mountains, which she eagerly ripped open. She saw the ad for the colony in the back of Writer’s Digest and applied several weeks ago, hoping to write undistracted in a lovely setting.

  Her name on the envelope was misspelled—Laura Leer instead of Laurie Lee—but the letter contained thrilling news. Not only had she been accepted to the colony, she’d been awarded a full scholarship, something she’d never once dreamed of getting. Ironically, the writing sample she’d sent in was a chapter from the novel Ramona didn’t like.

  “Woo hoo!” She was so loud she spooked a squirrel rooting around in the flowerbed.

  Laurie stood in her yard under the shade of a mimosa tree and read the letter two more times, even though the air was still and heavy and sweat pooled in the hollows of her collarbone. She especially adored this sentence: “We were bowled over with your writing sample and would be honored to offer you the Distinguished Scribe scholarship. It’s the only one we offer.”

  Honored. As if she were doing them a favor. Laurie did a little dance of victory every time she read it.

  It was one of the first validations she’d gotten as a writer, and it was a relief after her coworker’s criticism of her latest novel. Then again, poor Ramona probably didn’t recognize good writing when she saw it. The staff at the writing colony were trained to identify promising work and obviously her writing must have leaped out at them and said, “Choose me!”

  Three

  “How many male novelists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  It was Saturday morning. Aaron was in a coffee shop, drinking his usual cup of black coffee and sitting with his girlfriend, Emma. She was tight with a dollar and had only two indulgences: gin and coffee. Every Saturday she liked to sample a different coffee shop in Atlanta, and she insisted Aaron accompany her. To Aaron, all the coffee shops seemed similar. They all had too-clever names. (This one was called Brewed Awakening.) They all hung jarring amateur art on the walls and employed scary-looking female baristas whose bare arms bloomed with tattoos or whose ears bristled with piercings. He would much rather pick up a Styrofoam coffee at a convenience store.

  Emma was sipping one of her complicated coffee drinks—a nonfat Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce—and eyeing him over the rim of her cup.

  “How many male novelists does it take to screw in a light bulb?” she repeated

  Aaron shrugged. He wasn’t much for riddles. Puns, on the other hand, could be amusing, especially Shakespearean puns.

  “Four thousand words from the narrator about his feelings on his childhood circumcision,” Emma said.

  “What’s that?” The steam from the coffee fogged his glasses, and he wiped them with his sleeve.

  “How many male novelists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “The light bulb is inauthentic.”

  If that was the punchline of the joke, it wasn’t particularly funny. Not that he’d say so to Emma. She didn’t take criticism well.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Her eyebrows were at half-mast, and she was glaring at him. Obviously she was disgruntled about something and was waiting for him to ask her what’s wrong. Aaron refused to bite.

  “I read your novel last night,” she said.

  Emma managed a literary bookstore called The Spine. She’d been angling to read Aaron’s novel ever since he finished it, but he’d been reluctant to give it to her. Emma had a cruel streak when it came to evaluating literature. Her sharp mind unmercifully dissected novels, stripping them of their flesh, revealing weaknesses in their bones and innards. If a work didn’t possess the intellectual rigor she expected, she’d write a negative Amazon review that read like a death wish.

  On the other hand, if she admired a work, she wasn’t stingy with her praise. The day after his father said he’d never be an important novelist, Aaron, in a weak moment, asked Emma’s opinion, hoping to be reassured. Now he wished he hadn’t. Emma didn’t look like a woman about to shower accolades on his head. Pebbles, rocks, maybe even anvils, but not accolades.

  Emma paused for a long while. (For evil effect, Aaron imagined.) A shaft of sunlight fell on her shoulder-length dark hair, revealing auburn undertones. In the background beans groaned in a grinder; an espresso machine gurgled and whistled. It was a noisy endeavor, making coffee in a café.

  Finally, she spoke. “Everything that’s wrong with you and our relationship is reflected in the pages of your novel.”

  Aaron fidgeted in his chair. Lately Emma had been looking for any excuse to turn the most innocent exchange into a “State of the Relationship” discussion.

  “I don’t see any connection between our relationship and my novel.”

  “No connection?” Her eyebrows leaped into the upper quadrant of her forehead like acrobatic caterpillars. “You barely disguise any of the characters. Louise is clearly based on me.”

  “Louise is fiction. You and she have little in common.”

  “My middle name is Louise.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “She works in a bookstore.”

  “As a clerk, not a manager.”

  “She’s withholding in bed.”

  “Yes, well…what did you think of E
ric?”

  “Hmm. Let me see.” She stroked her chin in an exaggerated manner. “He’s emotionally deadened, pessimistic and lives entirely in his head. He’s never seen Louise as a fully developed and complex person. Eric defines her according to the function she fulfills in his life, and that’s why Louise is sexually withholding. She doesn’t feel cherished by Eric; she feels like she could disappear from his life and he would barely notice.”

  “Not true. Eric admires Louise’s intellect.”

  “Yes, but Eric also thinks he’s so much smarter than Louise.”

  Aaron took a sip of his coffee. “That’s because Eric is smarter than Louise.”

  Emma’s eyebrows turned into aerialists, nearly flying off her forehead. A plastic creamer sailed through the air, and Aaron ducked. After five years of dating Emma, he’d become a practiced ducker and rarely got hit anymore.

  “It’s because of Eric’s uppity attitude that Louise is fed up. She doesn’t want a relationship that’s completely cerebral. She’s a woman, not an intellectual sparring partner. Louise has a soft side that longs to be loved. She might not always show it, but it definitely exists.”

  Aaron swallowed a reply. Emma might like to believe she had a soft side but she was mostly sharp elbows, sharp fingernails and especially sharp tongue.

  “Aaron. This has gotten out of hand.”

  “I agree. It was a mistake to ask you to critique my novel. You’re too close to the material.”

  “This isn’t about you, Mr. Self-Involved. It’s about our relationship. What you fail to realize is, I need a man who—”

  Emma launched into what was sure to be a long diatribe on his various failings. He tried to pay attention but after a moment or two his mind wandered.

  Her nose flared and flattened like a chimney bellow.

  “Our relationship is a microcosm—”

  The soot of her discontent sullied the room.

  “I feel disenfranchised and—”

  It settled on his shoulders like the ashes of—

  “Are you writing in your head again?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Did a chimney bellow flare and flatten? He couldn’t recall seeing one in operation before.

  Emma banged her coffee cup against the table; the wire sugar canister jumped, tossing about pink and yellow packets of Sweet N’ Low and Splenda. “How many male novelists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She stood and flung her purse over her shoulder. It nearly clipped Aaron in the head. “The woman left the room. The male novelist was too busy navel-gazing to notice the relationship was over.”

  “Over?” Aaron said. He was suddenly more alert. “Again?”

  Emma had broken up with Aaron many times during their five-year relationship. The breakups lasted anywhere from a week to a couple of months, depending on her level of annoyance. When she was ready to have him back, she’d call and invite him over. Then they’d resume their relationship as if nothing had happened.

  “I mean it this time. I’m not happy.”

  He’d also heard that before. Emma always implied that Aaron was responsible for her happiness, which perplexed him, because he had no idea how to make himself happy, much less another person.

  “I’ll take the MARTA home.”

  Emma tossed some money on the table. On her way out, she nearly sideswiped a man in a baseball cap holding a tray of coffees. Legs well-muscled from years of prep school field hockey propelled her across the shop. (On more than one occasion, Aaron had found himself caught in the python-like grip of those legs.)

  A sense of wistfulness stole over him. He was fond of Emma and would miss her. But he always missed her less when she broke up with him during the summer. Summer was the best time to write, and with Emma absent from his life, he wouldn’t have to worry about the everyday sturm and drang of a relationship. Recently he’d applied to several writing colonies, and a colony in the Georgia Mountains had accepted him. Emma tended to be proprietary over his time and would probably resent his absence.

  He added a couple of dollars to Emma’s stingy tip and left the coffee shop. Outside the sky was gray, and the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, which surprised him. Every morning he diligently checked the forecast and no inclement weather was predicted.

  Aaron quickened his pace to his old Buick, hoping to arrive home before the storm. It seemed to be getting closer every second. A block away from his car thunder clapped loudly, and he broke into a gimpy trot. A whimpering sound emerged from behind a dumpster.

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  Another whimper followed as if to say, “Oh, yes you did.”

  He reluctantly paused and peered behind the dumpster. A black puppy with matted fur and no collar gave him a piteous look.

  Aaron glanced about his surroundings, hoping to spy an anxious owner, but no one was around. The puppy was cowering up against a dirty piece of burlap for comfort and was so tiny Aaron wondered if he was weaned.

  “I’m sorry, but I live in a room that doesn’t allow pets. I’m also due to leave for a writers’ colony in several days. In case you didn’t notice, a storm’s brewing and if I don’t go immediately to my car—”

  More thunder, louder still, which caused the puppy to whimper again and made Aaron even more anxious to flee, but he continued to linger. The animal was shaking, and its eyes were wide and terrified.

  “Let me reiterate. I don’t have time for this type of inconvenience.”

  The puppy responded with another whine which sounded eerily like “mama.”

  Aaron paused for a moment, considering, but after the puppy’s last utterance, he knew he had no choice. He scooped up the trembling animal, tucked it under his jacket, and made a dash for his car.

  Four

  “Vall-der-ri, Vall-der-ra! A knapsack on my back.”

  Laurie sang while exploring her accommodations at the writers’ colony, located deep in the mountains of Georgia. She was staying in one half of a duplex house, and it was utterly charming: Eyelet curtains. Porcelain claw-foot tub. Antique desk with an inkwell.

  It made her feel like Jane Austen who, incidentally, was the great-great grandmother of the romantic comedy. She hadn’t read any of Austen’s work—the books were as thick as doorstops with tiny type—but she’d watched Clueless, Bridget Jones’s Diary, and Pride and Prejudice. (The Kiera Knightly version, not the BBC, which was eight hours long. Who had the time?)

  There was no phone or TV in the duplex but she had her cell phone. Internet was optional. Laurie decided to request it, because she didn’t want to be off the grid for two whole weeks. She spent the morning unpacking and exploring the grounds. At noon someone tippy-toed up to her back porch and left lunch wrapped in a gingham napkin and tucked into a wooden basket.

  The good clean air made her ravenous. She gobbled up a turkey sandwich and fruit salad in a few bites. After lunch she sat down at the desk to write a love scene.

  Usually her search-and-peck typing couldn’t keep up with her imagination, but today the words refused to come. Two hours passed and she’d only written a paragraph, and not a particularly good one.

  At least it was almost time for dinner. Dinnertime was the only opportunity for socializing with fellow writers; the rest of the day they were closeted away in their duplexes working. This surprised her. She’d imagined the colony to be more like camp, where writing time was broken up with other activities like hikes, canoeing or games of charades. Maybe even a round or two of “Kumbaya.”

  Before getting ready for dinner, Laurie called her dearest friend Delilah, who lived in her hometown of Swainsboro, Georgia.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be writing?” Delilah said. Laurie could hear her friend’s two children babbling in the bac
kground and the jangly music of cartoons.

  “That doesn’t sound like PBS to me,” Laurie teased. Delilah told people she only allowed her kids to watch educational TV. What a fibber. Those children knew more about Sponge Bob than his own mother did.

  “Don’t change the subject. Why are you calling me from the writer’s cult? Bored already?”

  “It’s a colony, not a cult.”

  “Colony, then. Shouldn’t you be pounding your keyboard?”

  “I’m writing a love scene and having a bit of a block.”

  “That’s what you get for choosing a challenging hobby like writing. You should try adult coloring books. After the kids go to bed, I pour myself a big-girl glass of Yellow Tail, get out my sixty-four Crayola box and I’m as content as a little neck clam. Until I pass out. Those coloring books are better than a Lunesta.”

  Laurie smiled. No doubt Delilah didn’t color within the lines, which was one of things she always liked about her old friend. “I’ve told you. This isn’t a hobby. This is—”

  “Annabelle Louise. Don’t you dare smear Nutella in your brother’s hair.”

  “It’s a calling and so much fun. I really want to stick with it.”

  “Well, I have a solution to your block, but you will probably resist it.”

  “I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “You write romance, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get some into your life, for St. Pete’s sake.”

  Silence.

  “Are you there?”

  “I am. I’m not sure I’m ready to—”

  “I’m not suggesting you run out and get engaged. Just sleep with someone. This is the perfect opportunity. Grab one of your fellow scribes and toss him into your bed.”

  “You’re proposing a fling?”

  “Exactly.”

  Laurie lowered her voice to a near whisper, even though she was alone in the duplex. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”