(See previous disclaimer.)
I have been told that I need to slow down and not post so much, but I'm on a roll. Am I wearing y'all out? Let me know!
===============
Like most seasoned writers, Nadine Cooper knew that criticism came with the job. It was a given. But Rainey's crack about the literary equivalent of a mercy fuck was a splinter in her soul. She gave the oars a vicious tug. Who the hell did that arrogant little pissant think he was, anyhow? She rowed doggedly toward home, mad enough to spit. (To think I wasted a perfectly good loaf of banana bread on that fathead! Mercy fuck? Grrr!)
And yet, something didn't ring true.
Yesterday, he'd been able to discuss one of the subplots of her book in a way he'd've had to read the entire book to do. That whole business with the horse had been an ongoing story, not an isolated chapter Rainey could've skimmed in five minutes. And then for him to turn around and say he hadn't read it at all -- ?
Something else nagged at her. His accent...yesterday, his voice had sounded comfortingly southern. Not just the accent, his very way of putting words together. Today, he'd sounded...she wouldn't go so far as to say he sounded like a yankee, it wasn't the local "pahk the cah in the yahd" dialect, but generic east coast suburban. Nothing terribly distinctive.
(Am I being neurotic? Lots of folks talk different ways, depending on what situation they're in.) The gal from Portico, Georgia had learned the hard way that a lot of big city people, like the ones who worked for publishing houses, heard her accent and assumed she was slow, ignorant and couldn't possibly have a lick of talent. She used what she called her "Steel Magnolia" act to deal with people like that, and Rainey might just have a similar trick.
Nadine tied the rowboat up at her dock and glanced back across the lake at Rainey's cabin. Well, now she knew what the place really looked inside. She could recreate it in her memory, down to the dusty National Geographics in the bookcase and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and the junkfood wrappers on the coffee table. Mountain Dew at seven in the morning? She shuddered.
There was a steep bank at the end of the dock, with a dozen rough hewn stone steps leading up to the rise her cottage was built on. She climbed them nimbly, the sight of home soothing her.
The structure blended classic lines -- a rectangle with a steeply pitched roof and two gable windows looking out over the lake -- with Victorian elegance. Painted white from eaves to crawlspace, it had been accented with lacy white gingerbread, and Nadine looked forward to planting climbing roses next spring to add to its charm.
Inside, the little house was sparsely furnished. Where Rainey's cabin had acquired Things over the years, Nadine had brought very little with her from the past; when she'd left Georgia, Nadine had brought the bare minimum and shredded or auctioned off the rest.
Books and papers aside, an oak farm table with drop-leaves, a vintage brass-bound trunk (family heirlooms), a heavy cast-iron skillet (likewise), and her hat collection were the only items in sight that weren't shiny new.
From the gleaming hardwood floors to the beaded board paneling to the now-still ceiling fans, everything was clean and bright and hers. Nadine sighed with pleasure and plopped down to check her e-mail via laptop. There was nothing interesting; mostly spam endorsing products and services that made her skin crawl just from seeing the subject line. A routine note from her editor, advance copies of "Gemini Descending" would mail in a few weeks, how was life off the beaten track and most importantly, how was the new book coming, hint, hint?
The writer rolled her eyes. She didn't have a decent title for it yet, she'd gruesomely killed off two perfectly good characters, and at the moment, even she wasn't sure who the murderer was, since she'd given everybody plenty of motivation. She fired back a quick response: "Just peachy. Water. Trees. Five chapters." She sent it with a smile; shoot, the actual total was seven and a half chapters, thank you very much, but it went against her nature to tell an editor everything.
Thoughts of mentioning her new neighbor crossed her mind, but there didn't seem to be much to say: BTW, the bozo who beat me out for the Agatha Award the year before last is living just across the lake and he's a real jerk. Send him a review copy and trees will die in vain. Oh, and the locals think he might be a murdering psychopath; you might want to run off some extra copies of his backlist in case he gets arrested for killing some poor woman who just wanted to give him some banana nut bread and have a friendly conversation, for cryin' out loud!
"Asshole!" she exhaled, and brought up a fresh Word doc for a new chapter. She was definitely ready to kill someone.
I have been told that I need to slow down and not post so much, but I'm on a roll. Am I wearing y'all out? Let me know!
===============
Like most seasoned writers, Nadine Cooper knew that criticism came with the job. It was a given. But Rainey's crack about the literary equivalent of a mercy fuck was a splinter in her soul. She gave the oars a vicious tug. Who the hell did that arrogant little pissant think he was, anyhow? She rowed doggedly toward home, mad enough to spit. (To think I wasted a perfectly good loaf of banana bread on that fathead! Mercy fuck? Grrr!)
And yet, something didn't ring true.
Yesterday, he'd been able to discuss one of the subplots of her book in a way he'd've had to read the entire book to do. That whole business with the horse had been an ongoing story, not an isolated chapter Rainey could've skimmed in five minutes. And then for him to turn around and say he hadn't read it at all -- ?
Something else nagged at her. His accent...yesterday, his voice had sounded comfortingly southern. Not just the accent, his very way of putting words together. Today, he'd sounded...she wouldn't go so far as to say he sounded like a yankee, it wasn't the local "pahk the cah in the yahd" dialect, but generic east coast suburban. Nothing terribly distinctive.
(Am I being neurotic? Lots of folks talk different ways, depending on what situation they're in.) The gal from Portico, Georgia had learned the hard way that a lot of big city people, like the ones who worked for publishing houses, heard her accent and assumed she was slow, ignorant and couldn't possibly have a lick of talent. She used what she called her "Steel Magnolia" act to deal with people like that, and Rainey might just have a similar trick.
Nadine tied the rowboat up at her dock and glanced back across the lake at Rainey's cabin. Well, now she knew what the place really looked inside. She could recreate it in her memory, down to the dusty National Geographics in the bookcase and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and the junkfood wrappers on the coffee table. Mountain Dew at seven in the morning? She shuddered.
There was a steep bank at the end of the dock, with a dozen rough hewn stone steps leading up to the rise her cottage was built on. She climbed them nimbly, the sight of home soothing her.
The structure blended classic lines -- a rectangle with a steeply pitched roof and two gable windows looking out over the lake -- with Victorian elegance. Painted white from eaves to crawlspace, it had been accented with lacy white gingerbread, and Nadine looked forward to planting climbing roses next spring to add to its charm.
Inside, the little house was sparsely furnished. Where Rainey's cabin had acquired Things over the years, Nadine had brought very little with her from the past; when she'd left Georgia, Nadine had brought the bare minimum and shredded or auctioned off the rest.
Books and papers aside, an oak farm table with drop-leaves, a vintage brass-bound trunk (family heirlooms), a heavy cast-iron skillet (likewise), and her hat collection were the only items in sight that weren't shiny new.
From the gleaming hardwood floors to the beaded board paneling to the now-still ceiling fans, everything was clean and bright and hers. Nadine sighed with pleasure and plopped down to check her e-mail via laptop. There was nothing interesting; mostly spam endorsing products and services that made her skin crawl just from seeing the subject line. A routine note from her editor, advance copies of "Gemini Descending" would mail in a few weeks, how was life off the beaten track and most importantly, how was the new book coming, hint, hint?
The writer rolled her eyes. She didn't have a decent title for it yet, she'd gruesomely killed off two perfectly good characters, and at the moment, even she wasn't sure who the murderer was, since she'd given everybody plenty of motivation. She fired back a quick response: "Just peachy. Water. Trees. Five chapters." She sent it with a smile; shoot, the actual total was seven and a half chapters, thank you very much, but it went against her nature to tell an editor everything.
Thoughts of mentioning her new neighbor crossed her mind, but there didn't seem to be much to say: BTW, the bozo who beat me out for the Agatha Award the year before last is living just across the lake and he's a real jerk. Send him a review copy and trees will die in vain. Oh, and the locals think he might be a murdering psychopath; you might want to run off some extra copies of his backlist in case he gets arrested for killing some poor woman who just wanted to give him some banana nut bread and have a friendly conversation, for cryin' out loud!
"Asshole!" she exhaled, and brought up a fresh Word doc for a new chapter. She was definitely ready to kill someone.