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“Thanks, Dad.”
“You betcha.” Dad waves his sandwich so hard that another piece of cucumber flies out again and goes sailing across the table to land with a wet glop right in the middle of Mom’s forehead.
We all pause for a second, then Dad breaks into a soft chuckle, and I start laughing. Even Mom laughs as she wipes the cucumber and mayo off with her napkin. Everything is all loose and relaxed, and I think it’s about as good as it possibly will be, seeing as I didn’t expect my parents to not be suspicious and surprised, but then Mom just has to go for it.
“The house does look great, but how’s the writing coming along?”
She sounds like she means well, but I guess this is just one of those buttons of mine, and it’s currently getting stormed on and pressed like a group of energetic three-year-olds just tumbled into the button area of my brain and started slamming all the buttons that say don’t push because they can’t freaking read, and even if they can, they will give absolutely no shits because they’re three-years-old, those are buttons, and they’re fun.
To his credit, Dad does look a tad uncomfortable, but then, not to his credit, he also looks curious to hear my answer. It’s the kind of curious that says he’s actually freaking worried about me in that department, too, because one can’t possibly succeed and have a job that one likes and is good at if it doesn’t involve one going to an office every day and putting in the whole nine to five grind like he’s always done. My brother followed that same pattern, so I’m assuming my parents only worry about him somewhere in the vicinity of ten percent as much as they worry about me.
I grab the pitcher of iced tea and pour it so fast into my glass that a lemon wedge sloshes into my cup and makes a giant spill on the table. However, no one moves quickly to mop that up. I fake a huge smile and instill the cheer they probably expect.
“It’s going alright. I have a lot of research done already, which is a huge first step.”
Mom sighs while Dad shifts again. I didn’t lie, technically, because I am done with the research, but it’s been done for a good long while, and I still haven’t sat down to write a single word.
“I type fast, and inspiration will hit. As it is, I can’t sleep half the time because I keep writing things out in my head. I also have a huge journal of ideas, paragraphs of text, and dialogue lines that I come up with written down. It’s going to come together. Now that I don’t have to worry about the house, I can finally sit down and focus. The house was just completed a few days ago, and it took up a lot of time.”
“What’s the name of that guy’s company?”
While I have a feeling Dad’s request isn’t so benign, I know if I don’t tell him, he’s not going to let it rest, and then it will percolate and sprout in his brain. Dad with a sprouted brain is never a good thing. It’s like me with a story idea. It drives me nuts until I finally get it out.
“Granny and Boys Repair and Restoration,” I reply, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
Mom and Dad share a look that says they’re doubtful about me dating, but they’re even more doubtful about my writing career. It’s one of those looks that says I’ll be looking for a job soon when my whole life comes careening to a big fuck up of a standstill.
“Okay!” I clap my hands a little too cheerfully. “Well, who’s up for one more tour? I’m sure you have lots of questions. Did I tell you about how a raccoon came crashing through the ceiling? Twice?”
I’m nothing if not a master of diversion, at least where my parents are concerned, and I get the ball rolling on a second tour, which they probably don’t need but take just to humor me. After that, we finish the sandwiches and tea, and Mom and Dad give me hugs and drive off.
As soon as the dust has settled from their car heading down the gravel road, I race into the house, pound my way up the stairs to my bedroom, grab my laptop off the top of the dresser since that’s where I last set it, and get it fired up.
I have no idea where to start, but I force myself to write something.
Chapter One.
Yeah, that’s a good start. One of the best starts, actually. The cursor pauses there, but only for a minute. Pretty soon, it’s racing over the page, ideas flowing from my brain faster than I can type. I’m a seriously proficient typist—is that an archaic term now since this isn’t a typewriter because I’m not that cool—so that’s really saying something. I’ve been thinking about this story for ages. From the characters to the plot, the dialogue, and the little details, the story has been living and breathing with me for too long. It feels good to start, letting it become a separate, living entity and breathing life into something entirely unique, something that’s wholly mine before I give it over to the world. I hope people will love it and that it will make them laugh and cry and think, but I know there are probably going to be the usual amount of trolls who only leave a review when they want to tear something apart. Those kinds of people will always find something to pick apart and tear down, regardless.
