“Maybe kicking ideas around? Verbal brainstorming can help.”
“Oh, I never do that,” said Sam. “I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I just don’t talk about what I’m working on. I guess I’m superstitious.”
“Not even with your editor or agent? Or friends? Or curious male writers prowling outside your castle?”
Sam laughed. “Not even them.”
William raised his glass. “Let’s play a game. Will you humor me, my dear?”
“I... think so?”
“Let’s do Writer Lightning Round. I’ll start. Plotter or pantser?”
He meant did Sam use an outline or wing it. “Plotter,” she said.
“Same. Scrivener or Word?”
“Word,” she said, “and longhand.”
William’s brows rose. He looked delighted. “Longhand! Old-school.”
“Yep. I write outlines and notes by hand, then type the actual chapters on my laptop. And I have to use fountain pens. I can’t read my handwriting otherwise. You?”
“Type it right into my laptop from my brain, baby,” William said. He pantomimed inserting a syringe into his forearm. “I inject that heroin straight into Word.”
“Well!” said Sam. “I guess that makes our publisher a pimp.”
“People have called them that,” William said, grinning.
“My turn,” said Sam. “Do you write every day? Or when inspiration strikes?”
“Up every day before 5:00 a.m. One thousand words no matter what. No revising. Straight through the draft. Rinse. Repeat. And when I’m done with one book, I start another that afternoon.”
“Oh, you’re one ofthose,” said Sam. “I thought you guys were apocryphal. Or that when you said you finished a new book and started another, you meant reading.”
“Nope!” said William. “Waiting for inspiration is for amateurs, sweetheart.”
Sam sighed. “Yeah,” she said.
William tapped the back of her hand. “Let me guess. You’re inspiration.”
“Yup,” said Sam. “If I’m going to spend a year, three years, five, writing a book, I won’t do it unless I love it. Which means I have to feel connected. Emotionally inspired.”
William sat back and gazed at her for a long moment. “Simone, I’m about to drop something incredibly paternalistic and pedantic on you. May I?”
“How could I resist?”
He leaned forward and gripped her hand, encircling it in his.
“However you do it,” he said, “youmustget inspired. I don’t care if you go to a retreat in Italy or bonk the pizza delivery guy or stand on your head. You’ve got to channel that next beautiful book. Because the world needs another Simone Vetiver novel. I do.”
Was it Sam’s imagination, or did his thumb press gently into her palm? He let go of her hand. “If there is any way I can help,” he said, “I would be honored.”
“Thank you,” said Sam, thinking: Wow. “I might take you up on that.”
“I hope you do.” William reached over and tucked a loop that had escaped Sam’s braid behind her ear. “Forgive me. I’ve been wanting to do that all evening.”
Sam touched her hair. “Obviously I need to go clean up,” she said. “Excuse me,” and she slid out of the booth, William standing as she did.
