book would go on and on and make absolutely no sense.”
It gets laughs around the room, and she continues on, delving into some of the technical aspects of writing that only fellow authors could embrace. As fascinating as it is, I keep finding my eyes drifting off to the right side of the stage . . . to him. The sexy man in black who looks like he’d make a lead character in anyone’s book and easily turn it into a best seller just in describing his incredibly good looks. Chapter One–his eyes, with Chapter Ten (inches) being . . .
I get away with my stolen looks twice, but when the hairs along the back of my neck tickle, I glance over to find him staring openly at me. He winks, and I blush, forcing my eyes back to center stage but all the while considering that maybe he’s the inspiration I need just like J.A. Fox is talking about. A sexy guy, with just the right amount of cocky to be a bad boy and enough kindness to catch me when I fall. I reframe my hero, Ryker, adding a bit of ruggedness to his hair and seeing if there’s a place I could have him catch my heroine when she falls.
Reality inspiring fiction, and why the hell not? They say even Romeo & Juliet was inspired by reality.
Too soon, the Grand Dame wraps up her speech and dismisses us to the workstation tables. I understand that we should mingle and mix to talk to everyone, but my nerves ratchet back up when I see one of the sneering women from earlier sitting at the table where my name card awaits.
Thankfully, the other two women smile warmly as we each pull out our laptops. One’s a regency romance writer, while the other’s strictly LGBTQ+ fiction.
“Open a new document, please,” J.A. Fox instructs. “Sprint write the basic premise of your current work. No complete sentences or literary greatness needed. Just plot, character names, dark moments, and resolution. I’ll give you five minutes.”
Panic wars with excitement. I’m doing this, here in this room of greatness, and I want to watch the magic unfold. But when I see every pair of eyes click to their screen, mine do the same as I quickly tap out the basics of Trouble in Great Falls. Here, in fresh form, it actually makes sense.
The hard part’s in turning two hundred words into three hundred pages.
“And time,” J.A. says. “Now, please move a few lines down and write a single sentence about what your main concern is with your story. If there’s nothing” —she pauses dramatically— “then you’re a better writer than I am.”
We laugh and get to work. I write about my struggle, not with my story but with expectations from myself, from Hilda, and from the publisher and how they’ve led to a near-complete mental blockage. It feels good to purge that onto the page, and my hopes that someone of the Grand Dame’s caliber might be able to help me rise.
“Excellent. Feel free to work or discuss among yourselves. Find inspiration in each other, help guide each other through your concerns if you’re willing to share. Meanwhile, I’ll invite you up one at a time.”
My inner fangirl squeals, and I have to press my feet to the floor to keep from kicking them in excitement. I’m going to meet the J.A. Fox one on one. My life might be complete after that. Put a fork in me because I’m done, bucket list complete, and I’m able to die a happy woman.
There’s a little conversation around our table as I chat with the two nice authors. “You know, I had the same thing the first time I had to do a guy-guy scene,” Yasmina says. “I mean, it’s hot and all, but I didn’t know it, you know?”
“So what did you do?” Winnie, the regency author, asks.
“Went to a gay bar in my town and told the bartender my problem. He told me to take a table, and for the next six hours, I bought drinks for men who happily told me all I ever needed to know,” Yasmina says with a laugh. “Trust me, those recordings more than broke up my writer’s block.”
“Yeah, but I kinda know how Tab P goes in Slot V,” I point out.
Winnie giggles. “Maybe that’s your problem? There are other slots, you know. Slot A, slot M, slot H.”
The mean girl author, Elizabeth, raises a brow at Winnie’s list