I glare. “And you’re fine with doing the female lead? I would be happy to write the female and you write the male. It would stretch me, but I like challenges.”
“No, I’d prefer we stick to your first proposal,” she says.
I nod. “Perfect.”
She chuckles,laughing at me again. “People don’t usually wrinkle their noses when they sayPerfect.” Her smile lights the room. “Sorry. I will try to compromise.”
“I will as well. This isn’t going to be easy for either of us,” I say, trying to sound less irritated. It’s not her fault she operates in a manner so different than me.
“But we can make it as fun as possible,” she adds.
“Fun?”
“Yes! At the end of every day of drafting, we can meet for a treat at Two Cats Bakery.”
I hate the idea of writing beingfun. For me, it’s about digging deep into the pain of human existence, but… “It would be criminal to argue against baked goods.”
“Shocking, truly.”
“Agreed.” I feel a grin stretch my mouth and I’m surprised by it. I can’t help but soak up a measure of her enthusiasm. She must grow some cynicism before it’s too late and life stomps on her.
We throw a few ideas around, never agreeing on much. We fight about chapter titles—yay or nay—and character arcs. But after all the arguing, we finally have a sad, sad outline inked out. It’s lacking the heart, the guts, but we must begin somewhere.
“How about I write a short scene,” I suggest, “then hand it to you to weave your elements in with your character?”
“Yes, I think that might be a good idea rather than going from chapter to chapter so the story feels cohesive,” she says.
I nod, appreciating her moment of reason.
She rises and heads for the door. “Take your time. I’ll give Dew a break and check some folks in.”
With her distracting presence gone, I’m able to write what could be a moment in the first act of the story.
The candle guttered, shadows bleeding along the stone. Each breath he drew tasted of dust and despair. Somewhere above, laughter—sharp as knives—cut through the silence. The cellar was their tomb, carved in secrecy and regret.
I finish the scene, adding in her character and leaving room for change.
Colette returns. She’s pulled her hair up and one golden lock falls across her cheek. While she tells me about the goat shifters who just checked in, I hand her the scene. Thoughtlessly, she drags a fingertip over her collarbone. Back and forth. I swallow
“This is great,” she says, startling me. “Maybe too dark, but great.”
I gesture to her desk. “Go ahead and destroy it.”
She laughs, eyes sparkling. “I’ll do my best.”
I watch her as she works. She doesn’t pause as often as I do. Is she even considering word choices thoroughly enough? I wish she would take this seriously. This co-written short story won’t make or break her career, surely, but it might be the final nail in my career’s already well-crafted coffin.
Whirling around, she shoves the parchment into my hands. “I couldn’t weave them together so I just did my version.”
Some is the same, but when I get to the female character, the story careens off the road.
She sneezed. Loudly. So much for stealth. The bottle she’d grabbed for courage turned out to be mulled wine, not poison—not that she was picky at this point.
“If they find me,” she whispered, “at least I’ll die warm and slightly spiced.”
Blessed Runestones, the tone is painfully light. I don’t see how this is going to work.
She snatches the parchment from my fingers. “Let me try to blend them.”
