Eggplant Emoji. Gun Emoji. Hockey Emoji.
Aliens?
Eggplant Alien Eggplant Alien Eggplant Easter Island Guy.
Easter Island Guy?
Here we go again. I put the phone on silent. I know my editor means well, but I’m not entirely sure she’s joking. Either way, she doesn’t understand my process. It’s not like I wander through the supermarket, pulling story elements off the shelf and tossing them into my basket like ingredients for a lasagna. I don’t go home and measure things out, following a recipe.
The stories choose me. They flow through me, pumped by my heart, mixed into my blood. Coming up with stories has never been a problem for me before. I usually have to scramble to keep up with my main character. I normally feel less like an author and more like a court stenographer, chasing down her story as if I’m following her in real-time.
The Mystic Matchmakerseries makes me see romantic possibilities everywhere I go. I see the invisible forces that pull on people. People are like magnets waiting to snap together. Like dominos lined up to fall. One tiny little shove is all it takes to set things in motion.Usually.
But at the moment I’m blocked. I’ve hit my first dry spell at what feels like the worst possible time, just when I’m supposed to write the finale to my decade-long series. Where has my mojo gone? How can I gather the creativity to resolve my character’s curse, knowing I’ll probably never be able to lift my own?
Maybe you’ll meet someone… .
Sylvia’s words echo, chafing me like a heat rash.
May as well get all the difficult conversations out of the way while I’m stuck in traffic. I dial my parents back in England for a quick catch-up call. First the editor and now them. Look at me, being an adult.
“Isla darling is that you?” my mum picks up on the first ring. “How’s Rome? I do hope you’re not too hot.”
“I’m still in the States, currently in Los Angeles, Mum,” I sigh. “Remember I told you I sublet the apartment for August?” I’ve told her multiple times, but she still keeps forgetting. It isn’t dementia. She’s just that self-absorbed.
“Oh right. Such a pity, Darling. I don’t know how you can stand letting strangers rent your place.”
“They're not strangers, Mum. They’re friends of friends, and it is not a pity. The summer sublet pays the rent for almost the entire year.”
“Really? But still. Strangers in your home. Is it really worth it?” She pauses her monologue, probably deciding that thinking about money is beneath her. She brings the conversation back to her comfort zone, speaking about herself and how I can help her. “So Darling, there’s a problem with the plumbing in the en-suite in the west wing. I’m afraid there’s been a small flood, and we’ve had to turn off the water. Do you think you could call someone to come and look at it?”
“Wasn’t the plumber just there at the house last month, Mum?” I ask. Cutting my parents’ housekeeper’s hours and taking over paying their bills for them is just one of many of the recent cost-cutting measures I’ve tried to avoid having to sell the estate. I’ve just paid an enormous plumbing bill, presumably for some kind of plumbing overhaul.
“Oh no, Dear. The plumber wasn’t at thehouse. He was at the barn. We installed state-of-the-art showers and a jacuzzi for bathing the mini Shetland ponies.”
My driver lays on the horn and gestures rudely at another driver as he guns the engine and swerves into the HOV lane. We’re finally moving again.
“Why on earth do the horses need a jacuzzi?” I am sure my eyes are bugging out as I grip the armrest.
“The ponies love it, Isla. I wish you could see them! It’s so good for their nerves!” my mum says.
“Okay, well I’m not sure what to say, Mum. I won’t be getting another advance till I turn in the manuscript for this next book.”
“I suppose I could sell another one of Granny Fairfax’s dreadful paintings. There’s a few more up in the attic,” my mum sighs.
“No!” I object, feeling a sharp pang of loss at the very thought of letting another piece of my inheritance go. “Don’t do that. Please? Just hang on for a bit? I am going to a meeting right now to see about being on this reality show. It’s filming in the Caribbean next week, and I’ll be going down there for the shoot. I’m hoping to finish the manuscript at the same time.”
“But Isla, where do you expect your father and me to bathe in the meanwhile?”
“The barn?” I suggest, hopefully.
“Perhaps we should go stay at a hotel,” my mum sighs. “Lucky you getting to go to a resort! And what’s this about a reality show? That seems interesting. What’s it about?”
“It’s a dating show,” I say.
“Oh, how exciting! Are they going to find someone for you at last?”
“No Mum, I’m a consultant. I’m not there to get set up. I’m helping make the matches,” I explain. “I’m the romance author and matchmaking expert. Because of my books?” I remind her.
