He let out a mock sigh. ‘Shoot,’ he said.
‘Do you ever send white roses to Essie?’
He shook his head. ‘I suspect she’d throw them away.’
‘Do you know anyone else who might send them?’
‘Most people might send nettles instead.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything else?’
Liv paused for a moment. She was here with Ted and might never have this opportunity again. ‘Just that… I’ve always wanted to be a writer, too,’ she said, wondering if it sounded pathetic. After keeping her dream locked inside her for so long it felt freeing to release it.
He took time to consider her words. ‘In that case, you may find an old article Essie wrote to be of interest. I’ll ask my assistant to send it to you. Please get in touch with your email address.’
Liv nodded. ‘Thanks for everything.’
When she stepped out of the car, Liv felt somehow taller and wiser for spending an hour with him. She also felt she knew Essie a little better, though she still remained an enigma.
As soon as she stepped foot in the hallway, Jake appeared. ‘What were you doing in that posh car?’ he said.
‘Essie’s ex-publisher offered me a lift home,’ Liv said, avoiding using the wordsex-husbandin case it raised more questions.
He squinted at her. ‘Are you wearing a new blouse?’ he said. ‘It looks expensive.’
‘Yes.’ Liv touched the fabric and smiled, expecting he might compliment her outfit and make-up.
Instead, he folded his arms and raised a wry eyebrow. ‘You’re mixing in high circles recently,’ he said. ‘You’ll be too grand to be seen with me soon.’
Liv forced a smile. ‘Never.’ She touched his arm.
However, as she went upstairs to change her clothes, she wondered if her husband actually meant what he said. And if her reply was strictly true.
Ted Mason was true to his word. The following day, an article fromWriters’ Worldmagazine landed in Liv’s inbox.
HOW I WRITE by ESSIE STARLING
I place myself in my characters’ headsand think of their goals and motivations for the scene, so I can draft out the action.It’s like putting skeleton bones and vital organs in place. I can then flesh out the dialogue and sentences, forming the muscles and veins. Other than that, I don’t plot. I let the story take me on a journey.
My first draft will be a Frankenstein’s monster of a thing.My story might have the equivalent of a head and torso, and also three legs and one arm. I keep operating to bring the book to life. The finer details, the equivalent of the eyelashes, fingernails and birthmarks, take much longer to appear. I delve deep into my own experiences to breathe life into my characters. They allow me to say sorry when I can’t do it, and to be brave when I’m not. I know what it’s like to nurse a broken heart and live with regrets.
Many writers produce a terrible first draft where anything goes. It’s getting words down on a page that counts. You can’t edit something that doesn’t exist.
Do I have any advice for budding authors?No book is going to write itself. No one will wave a magic wand to grant you more talent or time. It all boils down to having a good idea, some writing ability, a strong work ethic and determination. The first step is often the scariest. Find writers you enjoy, read their work and learn from them. Write a sentence, write another one and keep going. Perseverance is key. If I can do it, perhaps you can, too.
Chapter 14
Pink Envelope
Liv read the article over and over. She passed on her thanks to Ted, via Rex the intern, for sending it to her. Over the next few days, whenever she felt a dip in confidence with Essie’s manuscript, she reached out for the piece again and hung on to the author’s words. ‘Perseverance is key. If I can do it, perhaps you can, too,’ she repeated to herself.
She tackled her own writing in the same way she did her cleaning, making sure she had all her tools to hand. Instead of bottles, lemon, salt and cloths, she had paper, pens, the laptop and a vintage teacup. She wore the black blazer, floral dress and old striped tie. The peacefulness of Essie’s flat, and even her bittersweet tussle with Book Twenty, gave her an escape from the noise at home, especially now that Mack had returned home for the summer from university.
Liv worked methodically and patiently, polishing Essie’s words and adding her own. Sometimes they poured out of her, and at other times they choked and spluttered, kicking their heels and refusing to hang out together. Her worries about Chloe still hung around like an overly keen childhood boyfriend.
She found herself living for the kissing-on-a-beach and rolling-in-the-hay scenes. Liv imagined she was the one scrambling her way out of raging rivers and clinging to crumbling rock faces. Creating her own paragraphs gave her a heady rush.
To tackle the emotional scenes, Liv forced herself to revisit the wrench of losing her dad, until tears streamed down her face and she could hardly see the laptop screen. And she grabbed hold of these feelings and gave them to Georgia so she could experience them, too.
However, Georgia’s true love still remained out of reach. Liv kept studying the list of existing heroes she’d noted down. She made comments to herself in the margins of the manuscript, just as Essie did. Their thoughts aligned often.
