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When I suggest she lie down, she doesn’t bite. I suggest she read the fantasy romance series I just finished. Even though there aren’t dragon shifters, she agrees to give it a chance.
That’s a lot for her. She writes erotic romance, yes, but she’s not a romantic. And she’s not remotely interested in the worlds of fantasy or sci-fi. She tried, when I was young, but now that I’ve moved on to (mostly) contemporary interests, she rarely stretches.
After she closes her bedroom door, I shower, change into a clean pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and take a moment to collect my thoughts the only way I know how: on paper.
It’s strange, sitting in my room, at my desk, after so many years living in New York. Everything feels too big and too small at the same time. Did I really decorate the room with Lichtenstein prints? What an art-school cliche. And the stacks ofDungeons & Dragonsbooks. The rows of dice. The character art on the walls.
Why didn’t I just writeSuper Dorkon my forehead?
The thought fades as I focus on my sketchbook. I don’t have time to work, not really, but I need to get some of this out of my head and onto the paper.
That same familiar refrain.She’s the sun and I’m powerless to resist her gravity.
It doesn’t fit into any of my work. Not now. But that isn’t the only way to use it. I don’t need to lift the phrase whole cloth. I can create another story, one that portrays the idea. Two people, fated to be together, kept apart by forces beyond their control.
A man’s need for distance and growth.
A woman’s need to sow her wild oats.
A sort of reversal of the usual expectations of romance. More of a Princess Zelda type. A woman who would rather go on adventures than sit on the throne. Who returns home to Prince Charming, only to find the real Prince Charming is the stable boy who was right there, under her nose.
A kind ofThe Princess BridemeetsZeldasituation. That’s the art style too. Fantasy. Only with a modern comic slant. The images form in my mind immediately. I capture one on the page. Then another. Another.
When I break from my trance, the party is humming. Classical music, conversation, laughter.
Shit. What time is it?
Ten to nine.
I check my cell for an update, but there’s nothing from Lexi. Only a message from her sister.
Deanna:When are you coming by the party? I want to introduce you to someone. An artist Dad knows. He works for a company that rhymes with Parvel. Why doesn’t anything rhyme with marvel? Not that it’s Marvel.
That’s too much.
She’s up to something.
Why is she texting me, anyway?
River:Can’t talk now.
I slip my cell into my pocket and make my way downstairs. Whatever Deanna wants to tell me can wait. I have a more pressing engagement.
Everyone waits for destiny.
Everyone except Deanna Huntington, maybe. She’s the only person with the sheer force of will to mold destiny to her own desires.
Maybe that’s what the story needs. A complication. A villain. The evil brunette sister is a cliche move. But maybe if I write her with a sympathetic motivation—
My phone buzzes in my pocket again.
Again.
Again.
I give in to my curiosity.
Deanna:Ah! You’re free. It will just take a minute.
