Well, you certainly like to get your day started early. To answer your questions, I work from home and so I am presently still in pajamas, which is probably my favorite thing about this job. But ghostwriting is only a part of what I do. That’s when you are commissioned by other people to write their stories for them. I completed a book not too long ago about the history of ramen noodles. It sounds horribly boring. (Because it was—lol.) But it paid pretty well. I am also an author. I write fiction—novels, mostly.
That’s a coincidence that you recently moved back to the city from Long Island. I was supposed to move out there—at the time, I was engaged. Let’s just say that it didn’t exactly work out the way I’d planned. I live in an apartment in Brooklyn instead. Which is totally fine. I’d rather be single and happy than married and miserable.
What kind of law do you practice?
Grace
I hitsendand get to work. Fueled by sugar and coffee, I’m ready to tackle my word count for the day. According to the calendar, my new deadline is May first. May Day. If I’m writing an 80,000-word manuscriptin fourteen days and so far I’ve only penned 3,500 words, I’ve got to write somewhere around 5,500 words per day.
That’s about twenty pages.
I take a breath and will the ideas to come.
Where were we? Oh, right. Presley’s open house. I describe it, all the details, all the hard work. I bring in a couple and show them around, really setting the scene. Next—well, who should show up but Connor Yates, of course? He has come under the auspices of “open house,” but naturally, he’s really there to see Presley and try to explain himself. I can’t make that easy for him, so I drop in a roadblock—a couple about to have a baby, who are interested prospective buyers. The wife is horribly type A. Connor fights me; he wants to be alone with Presley, so he needs to get these two out of the way. He pretends to call his Realtor and make an offer on the condo, within earshot of the couple, which, in turn, makes the type-A girl crazy. She and her husband head into the bedroom to discuss logistics, and Connor…hmm… Got it! Connor hides in the front hall closet.
Okay, this sounds like it was written by a lunatic. But I have the prospect of financial security on my mind, so I have no choice. I have to push through and see where it takes me.
So. The couple is in the bedroom and Connor’s in the closet. Let’s bring the couple back out to talk to Presley. They ask if “the other guy” left, and Presley says yes. Then, they ask if she knows what he was planning to offer so they can outbid him.
A-ha! Connortextsher from the closet.Tell her full price, the message reads.
The lady calls the Realtor and puts in an offer for more than asking price. Presley is about to breathe a sigh of relief, grateful for Connor’s interference, when…
His wife shows up! “Where is he, you little slut?” she asks.
I can’t make this too much like the last time she came. I need to switch it up.
I take a long slurp of what remains of my coffee. Crunchy sugar granules dance on my teeth. My molars grind them up, and mixed with my spit, they become the elixir of the gods.
Block her, I decide. Bring in more visitors, a couple with their Realtor. Connor texts Presley from the closet,Get rid of her. But Presley’s at a loss. She texts back, and then…
Ding!His phone goes off in the closet. Connor’s wife, Melinda, hears it and all hell breaks loose. She flips out, screaming accusations at him. He tries to call her out for the fact that she’s not much of a wife to him anyway; they haven’t had sex in months, and he believes theuniversebrought him and Presley back together. The couple with the Realtor sneak out, not wanting to get involved in the ridiculous scene, and then…and then…
Shit. This is a new low for me. Melinda stabs Connor in the ass cheek with Presley’s scissors. The ass cheek! I take a few stabs (ha! Literally!) at writing that line, and end up with this:
With an ass that round, Presley almost expected to hear a popping sound, as if it had been one of her decorative open house balloons. Connor twisted his torso to get a better look at the scissors half-submerged in his firm, plump rear.
Ugh. I need a break. Writing action scenes is too exhausting. I scan back over the work and do a quick page count. Not bad. Not bad at all.
All this talk of firm, plump asses awakens my body. I think I need to poop.
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:Good morning
Hi,
Yes, I typically like to get an early start on the day, you’re right. There’s a gym in my office building so I work out first thing and shower there. I’m usually at my desk by eight.
I’m an estate planning attorney. It’s my family’s business—my dad was an estate planner, and so was my grandfather. Since I’m an only child, I was coerced to go to law school to take on the family business, but most days I don’t mind it too much. I never had a dream job—other than becoming a professional baseball player—but I tore my rotator cuff in college and that was the end of that.
I didn’t realize ramen noodles had a history long enough to fill an actual book. I bet you’ll never look at them as a cheap, tasty lunch again.
I’m sorry to hear about your engagement, but I agree with your thoughts on being single and happy vs. being married and miserable. In the spirit of full disclosure, I was married up until six months ago, and I can say from personal experience that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. (Neither is Long Island. The taxes are out of control!)
Tell me about your novels. Anything I might know of?
