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“I do.” I leaned back against a wooden support beam and blew a raspberry between my lips. “And I know that thinking is a good portion of this job, but there aren’t any ideas that are making my brain light up, you know?”
She hummed. Even though this was only my second phone call with Bea, it felt a bit more like author therapy this time, instead of a “get to know you” chat like the first had been.
“Have you talked this out with Ian? I know you didn’t have the option of bouncing ideas off anyone living at your parents’.”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “I don’t know why I haven’t. It feels like giving someone a scary peek behind the curtain, and they realize that I’m not actually the Wizard of Oz, I’m a neurotic almost thirty-five-year-old woman who walks around in a T-shirt and her underwear, eating cookie dough out of a tube while he’s at work.”
I glanced down at my bare legs. I wasn’t in my underwear, but the threadbare shorts disappeared under my shirt, so I might as well have been.
At my analogy, she laughed. “Do you really think he’ll care what he finds behind the curtain?”
“No.” My eyes pinched shut, thinking about white blankets and permission to use sparkly paint and pizza served on paper towels while we moved boxes. “He won’t care at all.”
“Being in a supportive environment is no small thing, and if your friend has proven to support you, even if it means tough love on his part, I think this is the best place for you.” She paused. “The words will come, but maybe you need to shake things up a little. And I don’t mean the physical location where you’re writing. I don’t think that’s your problem. Try to write out of your genre, if that’s a place you’re getting stuck.”
I snorted. “Oh great, now what? Aliens and monsters?”
She made a slight humming noise. “Not necessarily, but those could fit too, depending on your mood.”
“My mood,” I said glumly. “I don’t even know.”
She paused. “Okay, let’s try a different angle. All the authors I work with notice a lot. You pay attention to things happening around you because you damn well know that ideas can come from anywhere. What have you been noticing lately?”
I closed my eyes and thought about the big dinner I made. Cleaning up dishes and kid’s laughter. A game of catch in the backyard. Fuzzy white blankets and movie nights.
“Partnerships,” I said unthinkingly. “Teamwork. Having someone with you to help you through the hard.”
Bea made a soft noise of comprehension. “Understandable.”
“That doesn’t help me with my words, though.”
“Maybe not just yet. What about your writing setup? Have you switched things up? Try dictation?”
I snorted. “Almost broke my ankle. Me and nature and trying to write do not mix.”
She laughed at that. “Fair enough.”
My fingers drummed absently at the edge of my laptop. “Did I mention I tried writing in his barn today?”
“You did not.” Her voice was brimming with amusement. “But if it works, embrace it.”
I tweaked a piece of hay and spun it between two fingers. “I saw this story online about a romance writer who kept bringing cars into a tire shop because she was getting good words in their waiting room. Neighbors and her whole family, everyone’s cars. Maybe I should try that next.” I plucked a piece of hay. “Damn if I wouldn’t borrow everyone’s I know in order to make it happen.”
A truck approaching the house made me glance out the open barn door. I winced because Ian would probably think I’d lost it. Again.
Not that I’d done any more gourmet cooking in the past couple of days. That particular tear had only lasted one meal, thank goodness. But it was nice to know I could still pull together something on par with Sheila Wilder’s skills.
“Please let me know how that pans out,” she said on a laugh. “In the meantime, based on your answer about the things you’ve been noticing, I will email you a list of writing prompts. Don’t overthink them. No one will look at what you come up with, so don’t self-edit either. But that’s your homework before we speak again, okay? Work through all the prompts in the next week.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She chuckled.
Just as we disconnected the call, a big hand hooked on the barn door and pulled it open. Ian’s head poked through the opening, his eyes widening when he saw me sitting there. I waved a pathetic little oh don’t mind me sitting in your barn with my computer wave.
“It’s just me. No criminals are raiding your barn.”
“Pretty sure you’re the one who worries about things like that, not me.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and ambled toward me.
