The pro authors at my writer's conference said that, when asked when their current project will be published, their standard response is "in a year." Their point: it takes years to publish a good book, much longer than we anticipate. Don't publish before it's ready. Otherwise, you're doing yourself a disservice. That said, here's an early scene from my novel, Woman on the Verge of Paradise. I've begun editing, and it'll be published in a year. Smiles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
could never relate to boys in a way that felt anything but weird. I was usually
too shy to even say “hi” to them. On occasion, though, a (very) random
guy paid attention to me.
There was Robbie, for example, who used to
visit the library whenever I did library service as an elective. He was a lanky kid who donned thick-framed
glasses and resembled a White Steve Urkel. Robbie strolled into Orville Wright Junior High's library on a regular basis, to talk to me. It was his “free period,” he said.
I had no interest in him, but Robbie's attention
flattered me. When I told Susan about him, she suggested I give Robbie a
chance. “Robyn, he really likes you. He seems like a nice guy,” she goaded.
Easy for you to say, I thought. You got one
who doesn’t pull his pants up above his belly button.
One day Robbie stood really close, leaned in
to supposedly look at the title of a book I was stacking to be shelved, and
“accidentally” touched his hand to mine.
“Wow, your skin is super soft, Robyn.”
Robbie’s gentle touch felt sweet, as did the
compliment. “Thanks,” I said softly, slightly blushing.
“Robyn?”
“Yeah?” I hid my giddiness, awaiting the
question. Was he going to ask for a date? Tell me he’d been in love with me
since he first set eyes on me? Ask me the all-important question of the day:
“Will you go with me?”[1]
He quickly turned his head from side to
side, as if to assure nobody was around.
I scanned our immediate vicinity too. Nobody
in sight. It was just me and Robbie. Robbie and Robyn, all alone at the
front desk of Orville Wright Junior High School’s library. Nobody else existed.
Robbie moved in closer, preparing to ask the
question. “Robyn...do you have fifty cents I can borrow for a soda? I’ll pay you
back next week.”
And so
it went. My spectacularly unromantic romantic life. My open-hearted, tenacious,
klutzy quest for love and self-worth. My story: the anti-fairytale.
[1] I think this meant “Will you date me?”I'm not sure, though. Nobody ever asked me to "go" with them without adding a destination. Did any of you hear or use this term back in the day?
