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“To be fair, I started when I was twenty-one, so it’s not as hard as it sounds.”
“Are they the kind with sex?”
“Of course they are. What’s even the point of a love story without sex? It would be like baking a cake with no sugar. Is that even a cake? At that point it’s just inferior bread.”
“I agree,” she said enthusiastically. She paused. “Is it awkward, though, writing sex like that?”
“Not at all,” I answered easily. “I love sex. To be honest, it’s my favorite thing to write about. Sex is beautiful and wonderful. And it’s easy to write about anything that’s on your mind that consistently.”
“I’ve never read you, but I’m going to read every single one of these.”
That was a troubling development, but there wasn’t exactly anything I could do about it. I sighed. “Just don’t let the reading get in the way of your homework.”
NOVA
The next few weeks passed by in an easy blur of school, work, catching up on assignments, and reading Carter’s books.
I lost a lot of sleep, but there was no question it was worth the exhaustion. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried. I was obsessed with Carter’s novels in a way I’d never been with anything aside from the man himself.
They weren’t just sexy books, though they were emphatically that.
They were also passionate and warm, and each one had its own pulsing heart and soul. They gave me such a glimpse into how he felt about love, what he’d be like if he gave his heart to someone, and it was staggering how much I wanted not just the man himself now, but the picture he’d painted of what romance could and should be.
His writing was succinct but lush with the precise details to hook you.
His characters were the best part. They felt like real people and what he put them through, he dragged the reader along for, no matter if it was wonderful or tragic.
Every book was unique to the other, but they were all addictive and beautiful.
I’d loved reading for a long time, but became so infatuated with it then that by the end of his fifth book I’d decided I wanted to become an author someday myself.
It took courage, but I shared my impossible little dream with him. My biggest fear in the sharing was that he’d shoot the idea down somehow, find me lacking to follow his same path.
But of course he didn’t do that. He did the opposite. He encouraged me, guided me, praised the idea. He was just too good and too perfect. He was the only person I’d ever met that just got better the deeper you dug.
He made me feel like becoming an author was realistic and attainable instead of a pipe dream, even helping me, aiming me in a direction to start.
“You can do it,” he told me. “It’s the best job in the world. And you have me. I’ll always be here for you, to guide you when you get stuck, as all writers do.”
“If I wrote something would you read it and tell me if it’s any good?”
His eyes were shining at me, his smile beatific. “Of course. In a heartbeat. Perhaps, when you find your stride, we can write something together.”
“I’d love that,” I told him shyly.
“I love the way you write women,” I told him when I was on his tenth book.
“How’s that?”
“Like we’re people, not just coveted objects or plot devices. You’d be surprised how many male authors don’t.”
“You read a lot, then?”
“As much as I possibly can, every chance I get. I’ve read just about every piece of fiction in the school library.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re very well spoken, particularly for someone your age, and you were always a good student in my class.”
“Not lately.”
