“About the male main? Why? So far, he’s only shown himself to be an absolute dolt to her. She hasn’t seen any of his capabilities.”
“It’s not that. It’s that she’s fallen into the same habits she always does in stressful situations.”
“So you’re saying when she jokes to cover her fear, she grows angry with herself?”
“Exactly that.”
I drop the hand holding the parchment and look at the ceiling. “Hmm.” The wooden beams across the room host blue flowers, curling ferns, and bluebirds. I meet her gaze and she’s smirking. “What is that look for?”
“You can’t stop thinking I’m a shallow idiot and I can’t stop proving you super wrong.”
I lift my lip to show my fang. “You arenot an idiot and I’m aware of that fact.”
“But the shallow part…”
“Your writing has depth, and I need to be patient enough to discover your subtler techniques. Wallow in glory, wordsmith.”
She laughs loudly then and grabs the draft from me. In the middle of prancing about the room like a show pony, she lifts a maplecat kitten from her wildly poofy duvet.
“Time for pastry, Mossette! Pastry! Pastry!”
The kitten mews and scrambles up to her shoulder to perch like a pirate’s bird.
“Wait,” I say. “Let me ask you one more thing before we head off to devour our weight in baked goods.”
“Anything.”
“When your character jokes instead of showing her emotions, who is she protecting herself from? Where did she learn this coping mechanism? It must be someone in her past. Her family? Her parents? A close friend who betrayed her in a time of need?”
Colette has frozen with one hand on the doorknob. The kitten mews into her hair, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I…” She coughs lightly and I can tell she’s stalling. “I don’t know. I’m not doing that whole dying sister backstory you were trying to sell before.”
“And you don’t need to. But she must have experienced something in her past that pushed her to that sort of behavior. You know that.”
“I do.”
“Yes. People wouldn’t buy your books if you didn’t have at least some ghost or wound in your characters’ backstories. That’s what rounds them out. Even in a romantic comedy.”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why are you acting shocked at my question?”
“It’s just that… I don’t know.”
I know that look. She sees herself in that defense mechanism. I’ve been there. I am well-acquainted with the sensation.
“I began writing to deal with my troubles,” I say quietly. I feel raw, and I hope this isn’t the totally wrong thing to say. “Why did you start writing?”
“To make people laugh. For an escape.”
“Escape from what?”
She turns her head and looks at her nightstand, where a small book sits beside a locket that I’ve never seen her wear. “From my family.”
“Why?”
“They’rewonderful. They are. But we never had enough. Not enough food. Money. Time. Patience. My parents, well…”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
