Besides, it would be giving my readers less than my very best, something I refused to do no matter how big the paycheck might be.
I searched for the words to make Bonnie understand.
“Growing up I always loved reading. I loved the adventure of it, the entertainment. I loved how it could take me away from my problems and all the cares and concerns of this world.”
“Me too.” She smiled.
It was nice that she was a reader. Claudia wasn’t, and she’d never had any interest in talking about “boring book stuff,” as she’d put it.
“But what I loved most was being surprised,” I said. “The big reveals, the twists and turns I never saw coming. I can’t cheat my readers out of that experience by giving them a story without those things. If I wrote it according to that outline, they’d already know what happens. They’d be missing out on something important.”
“They’ll miss out on something more important if your book never comes out at all.”
I wasn’t sure how we’d gotten onto such a deep topic. In fact, I was surprised we were talking civilly at all.
The last words we’d exchanged a week ago hadn’t been exactly friendly, and it hadn’t escaped my attention that she’d refused to wear the clothing I’d ordered for her.
Until tonight, that was.
My eyes drifted back down to the dress, the soft drape of the silky, feminine fabric clinging to her every curve.
My pulse accelerated, and my dick stiffened. I swallowed hard and forced my eyes back up to her face and my brain back to the topic at hand.
“What you’re saying is reasonable,” I admitted. “But I just can’t do it. Anyway, I’ve been writing every day, which is an improvement, but I still have no idea how to wrap it all up. You might as well re-write your article as a Requiem for a Failed Writer and the Book That Never Was. It’ll be a fitting eulogy for my career.”
Bonnie’s expression was thoughtful, as her gaze bounced around the kitchen. Finally it returned to me.
“I’ve started writing again—not just articles—a new book.”
“You have? That’s great.” I was thankful for a change of subject and still struggling to believe we were having a non-confrontational conversation.
She nodded. “It feels good. I think it was rereading some of the classics in your library—it really is a remarkable collection.”
“I know, I know. I should read the books I own.”
Her soft laughter fell over me like a shower of cherry blossom petals. Apparently, she was entertained by my self-flagellation.
And her smile could be marketed as a Viagra substitute.
Completely unaware of the inappropriate turn my thinking had taken in the last minute, she went on. “I think writing long-hand is helping, too. It’s like… it feels like I’m writing just for me, like it’s not for work, you know? It’s not even in a format anyone else could understand—my handwriting is atrocious. It’s very freeing.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Writing used to be nothing but fun for me, too. That was before I’d had to deal with the pressure to meet reader expectations book after book, to surpass my sales from the previous release and stay at the top of the charts and in the front of the bookstores.
Bonnie gave me a speculative glance. “Maybe you should try it. There’s a whole stack of empty notebooks in the desk. It might spark some new ideas.”
Something about the idea of a newbie writer giving me writing advice amused me. It was incredibly ballsy.
It was also sweet. Bonnie was obviously sincere about wanting to help me.
I smiled. “Maybe I will.”
A memory popped into my head. My father—a much younger,soberversion of him—sitting at the wobbly desk in our small living room, writing with the fancy fountain pen Hunter and I had been forbidden to touch.
It was one of the few good memories I had of living with the man.
“My dad used to write longhand every night in this thick leather journal,” I told Bonnie. “He swore it helped him think. Said it was his own version of therapy. That was before… you know. He quit journaling after her death.”
