Contractions

"Ms. Lesharpe?" Jenny, the editorial assistant Mercedes had inherited along with her too-small, hopefully very temporary office, yawned over the intercom. "Your eight a.m. is here."

Merce punched the reply button. "Please pickup the handset, Jennifer." As soon as she heard her assistant's asthmatic breathing in her ear, she said, "We don't refer to anyone I am seeing by appointment times."

"We don't? But Ms. Hartlace--"

"--is now working for Wiley and Tight House," she reminded her. "Where, if she chooses, she may call people by their pornstar names. In my office, however, we use proper names."

"Okay." Jenny sounded glum. "Mr. John and Ms. Marcia are here to see you."

Merce gritted her teeth. "Mr. John and Miss Marcia who?"

"You said not to call them your eight a.m."

"I meant, what are their surnames?" After a long silence, she asked, "Their last names?"

"Gee, I don't know," the assistant admitted. "I don't think they have any. Come to think of it, neither do I."

"We don't mind being referred to by our appointment time," a pleasant male voice called out over the speaker.

Merce propped her forehead against her hand. "Jennifer, the next time I request you pick up the handset, please remember to also turn off the speaker."

"Oh, sure." Chewing gum popped. "I'll write that down."

"Excellent." The assistant would definitely have to go back to reception, by the end of the week at the latest. "Now please send in our guests."

"Who? Oh, you mean them. Okay."

Merce straightened the lapels of her jacket, slid her hands together to check their temperature and humidity, and then resisted the urge to fiddle with the perfection of her chignon as the door to her office opened and her eight a.m. came in.

The hero, Merce saw at once, was far too tall, dark, and handsome. As for the heroine, she looked like a brunette-wigged Heidi Montag before all the surgeries. "Good morning. I'm the new senior editor, Mercedes Lesharpe. Do call me Merce."

"I'm John," TTD&H said, striding over to reach across the immaculate desk and seize her hand. He had a grip like a shoe junkie at a DSW 80% off sale. "It's such a pleasure to meet you." He released her bruised fingers and slipped his arm around PreSurgery Heidi's thick waist. "This is my darling Marcia." He patted the bulging elastic panel on the front of her skirt. "And of course our little devil, who won't be making an appearance until our next novel, Demon's Redemption."

"A sequel." No one had mentioned this. "How delightful. Congratulations to you both." Merce imagined heads rolling down the aisles in Acquisitions. "Please, sit down."

Once everyone had settled, Merce put on her sympathetic-but-brisk face. "I appreciate you making time in your busy schedules to see me. I'm also sorry we had to meet here, but the board is still shifting personnel, and it will be a few weeks before I have my office." She removed a folder from a drawer, and pretended not to see the empty Skittles wrapper that came out with it. It fell on top of her right stiletto, which she quickly shook and shifted to cover it. "Although I have yet to assign a new editor to your novel, I want you to know that Ms. Hartlace was extremely fond of your novel, and deeply regretted leaving your author in the middle of production."

"Really?" Marcia appeared bewildered. "Her last e-mail said she couldn't wait to get out of here. After she called me a stupid bimbo who needed to grow a brain."

"No, honey," John told her. "It was before she described blowing chunks over our manuscript so often she had to be treated for bulimia." He thought for a minute. "Or maybe it was after she said she now believes there is a hell, thanks to us."

Merce cleared her throat. "Nevertheless. I will do my best to find the right editor to step in and fill the enormous shoes left behind by Ms. Hartlace."

"Size eleven and a half extra wide," Marcia said.

Merce blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Agatha had feet like a rodeo clown." John's expression grew fond. "She always smelled deliciously of powdered sugar and Jack Daniels, too. God, I miss her already."

"Yes. Well." Merce decided the faster she could end this meeting, the sooner she could start in on the thermos of Irish coffee she'd brought from home. She opened the folder. "I do have a few questions about your story." She nodded at Marcia. "You are currently pregnant, obviously, but when I read the manuscript for Angel's Darkness I never found a wedding scene. Did your author at some point hold the ceremony off-stage?"

"We didn't get married," John said. "Marcia wanted to at first, naturally, but her being half-angel and me being half-demon, well . . . it would create a catastrophe."

"What kind of catastrophe?"

"Um, the apocalyptic kind." Marcia made a face. "We discover it when I find that unholy book in the very back of the library, you know, and read the prophetic passage that details the destruction of all life in the universe, the sundering of Heaven, the end of time itself, yada yada yada. Should John and I ever tie the knot, all that kind of happens. Like immediately." She thought for a moment. "Middle of Chapter Seventeen, I think."

"Right after we do it on top of the coin-operated copy machine," John put in.

Merce sighed. "Chapter Seventeen will have to be tweaked, then. The unholy book can be deleted, and that will take care of this apocalyptic prophecy. I also don't care for sex atop public-access equipment, so we'll cut that as well. You" --she looked at John-- "may use the resulting space to propose marriage. And you" --she turned to Marcia-- "will blushingly accept with all your heart."

"I don't have a ring," John said. "Or a heart. I'm half-demon, remember? Totally different physiology."

Marcia looked stricken. "We liked having sex on top of the copy machine. The slidey part made it fun." She touched her stomach. "It's how our little angel was conceived."

"Is your mother Sarah Palin?" Merce asked sweetly. "No? Then this unplanned pregnancy is not happening. I also want you two to date in the story for several months -- eight or nine should do -- before you jointly decide to commit to a physical relationship. This should happen a week or two after John proposes. We want your author to send the right message to our readers, don't we?"

The couple simply stared at her.

"Good. Now, a few more things."

Merce went through her notes, briefly outlining the two hundred and seventy-nine other tweaks she needed their author to make. Neither John or Marcia made any more protests, and by the time Merce reached the last item she felt comfortable enough to break out her thermos and pour herself a healthy measure into her company mug.

"The final change I want made is this green wallpaper." She took a sip from the mug. "We want to offer readers attractive modern settings with the sort of interiors they dream of for their own homes. Your author can paint this room instead; since it belongs to you, John, I think soft but still masculine adobe colors with some texturizing would be--"

"No!" Marcia jumped to her feet. "You can't take away our wallpaper! I know it's a hideous green, but it's our hideous green, don't you see that?"

"I'm sorry you feel that way." Merce closed the folder. "But the wallpaper is fictitious."

"Like our wild monkey sex, our huge plot twist, our unborn half-human quarter-angel quarter-demon baby?" John countered. "They may not mean anything to you, but they're our whole world."

"Which is also fictitious," Merce said sweetly. "I'll have your new editor explain it to your author once I order, I mean, assign one to her."

"We do have other publishing options now, you know." When she didn't respond, he stood up. "All right. I don't think our author will be working with any of your editors on this novel."

"I'm sorry you feel that way." Merce knew her smile wasn't as pained as it should have been, but she was enjoying this too much. "The terms of your contract, however, are quite clear. As senior editor I do have the final say over content, and with the exclusive rights clause your author agreed to, she can't sell any paranormal novel to anyone else without my approval."

"Wrong." John produced a roll of papers from his jacket and tossed them onto the desk. "Our contract. Check the next to last page."

Merce scowled as she unrolled the pages, flipping to the end. "These are the usual agency riders. There's nothing here that forces us . . . " she paused as her gaze drifted to the bottom of the page. "Where is the author's signature?"

"Temperance hasn't signed it yet." John plucked it from her hands and dropped it in the trash can next to her desk. "Come on, darling," he said to Marcia. "We'll go and talk to that nice man from B&N.com who promised us seventy-five percent."

Merce shot to her feet. "You'll never get the kind of distribution we can give you," she called after them. "Or a print edition. Or any editing at all."

"Sounds good to me." John shot her the bird behind Marcia's back before the couple exited and the door slammed shut.

Merce sank back down into her chair. "Ingrates," she muttered as she emptied the rest of her thermos into her mug. "I can sign five authors -- better authors -- to take the place of yours before lunch." She chugged down more coffee and then yelled, "And they'll write without an advance for six percent, do you hear me? Six percent and not a penny more!" The intercom buzzed, and she punched the button. "What now?"

"The Dreamworks studio rep is holding on line two," Jennifer said meekly. "He wants to talk to you about acquiring the film rights for Angel's Darkness and Demon's Redemption. Evidently Mr. Spielberg loves the storyline. He also wants to inquire about us collaborating with them on enhanced content for the e-book editions."

"Get his number and tell him I'll call him back." Merce spilled the rest of her coffee down the front of her blouse, slipped on the Skittles wrapper, and slammed her hip into the corner of her desk, but the sodden material, broken stiletto and shooting pain didn't slow her pace. She skidded to a halt by Jennifer's desk. "Which way are the elevators?" She waited for the girl to point, and then raced out in that direction.

Jennifer waited until the editor disappeared around the corner before she got up, went down the hall in the opposite direction and knocked on the door to the private conference room. "Hey, you were right, she actually broke a shoe. Now what do I tell her when she comes back and asks for the rep's number?"

"Say he preferred to call her later," John suggested in a slightly muffled voice. "When Spielberg can do a conference call with them."

"John." Something inside the room got slapped. "That's too mean."

Something inside the room got kissed. "So was tweaking our baby out of existence."

"So is your author really going to self-publish, or was that just part of the gag?" Jennifer heard a yowling sound, and peeked inside. Seeing what John was doing to Marcia on the conference table made her giggle. "Gee, Ms. Hartlace was right. You guys really are like bunnies."

(for Darlene and all the other John & Marcia fans out there)

Reviserable

Marcia slowly walked through the smoldering ruins of her home, shocked to see the destruction caused by the unexplained explosion that might have also killed her. If not for John's timely intervention

[Junkies get interventions, not heroines. Specify what he did here.]

If not for John grabbing her, throwing her to the ground and crushing her into the road with the weight of his manly body -- get the picture? -- she would at this moment be winging her way to Heaven.

[Assuming she isn't going the other way for doing it with John in that closet at the Halloween party five minutes after meeting him. Need some good girl guilt, plausible deniability, and couldabeenworse here.]

Perhaps she deserved to die. Marcia still felt scalded by shame over her wanton and wholely inappropriate behavior toward John at the Halloween party. Somehow she would have to accept that she had been under a demonic spell that had forced her to have sex with the first living being with a pulse she encountered. Thank heavens it had been John, who had of course immediately realized that the only way to break the spell was to know her in the Biblical sense of the word know. Otherwise she might have ended up doing it in the back yard with the host's Great Dane.

[Nicely done. I'm starting to smell RITA. Can you work in a line of some soul-wrenching regret for not saving it for the wedding night?]

"Don't think so." Marcia bent to pick up a scorched, twisted picture frame that had once contained the photo of the kids. Now the image of poor little Jimmy, Raymie, Jennie, Suzie, Ralphie, Igory, Brucey, Consuelaly, Supreme Beingly and BillyJoeBobbyRaeBobBilly was a bubbled mess.

[Who are these kids again?]

She sighed, dropped the scorched, twisted picture frame, then bent to pick it up again. It had once contained a photo of the kids in her summer reading group who hadn't quit the program to go look up porn sites on the library's computers. Now the image of poor little Jimmy, Raymie, Jennie, Suzie, Ralphie, Igory, Brucey, Consuelaly, Supreme Beingly and BillyJoeBobbyRaeBobBilly was a bubbled mess.

She closed her eyes and held the destroyed picture against her breast. "Oh, kids. You were my rainbows, my kittens, my unicorns. You mattered to me as much as John, as much as . . ." She began to sing softly. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know--

[COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT!!!!! NO SONG LYRICS!!!!!! And why the HELL is Marcia walking through the ruins anyway? According to your timeline the house exploded ten minutes ago -- see pg. 21. Fire fighters would still be there soaking it down. Is her jumper made of asbestos?]

Marcia stopped singing. Time rushed forward as the moon raced across the sky, the ruins became a soggy but safe blackened mess that the firefighters had thoroughly soaked down. "Oh, kids, you were rainbows, kittens, unicorns, whatever . . ." She began to sing, although her voice was too soft to hear the copyrighted lyrics. "Mumble mumble mumble."

[Boring -- get rid of this whole kid and singing thing, it's not working for me. Where is John? He's been gone for at least twenty mins. Too long!]

Marcia tossed the ruined picture aside. "John isn't here right now. He's off getting us a motel room. Can I take a message, or would you rather write one in the margin?"

[Ooooo, motel room scenario, much better. Let's end this scene and move onto that.]

"No." Marcia reached above her present paragraph and ripped the line of dialogue about the motel room out of the page.

[Hey. Cut it out.]

John pulled up to the curb, climbing out of his Beemer and hurrying over to Marcia.

[I thought we agreed to switch out the Beemer for a Harley.]

"No," Marcia said through clenched teeth, "you thought you'd call John's Beemer a wimp ass car and demand he trade it in for a Harley. Which he hated, so he traded it back in the final draft of Chapter Two. You could have read it, but no, that was when you took that personal day from work so you could have your back waxed and your thighs cello'd. Remember?"

John looked at the gaping hole in the paragraph above them. "Uh, honey, what happened to the dialogue up there?"

"A character has to do what a character has to do." Marcia flung a hand toward the face hovering over their page. "Ask her about the new motel room scenario, since she's writing the book now instead of editing it. Go on. Ask Saran Wrap Girl. She probably wants us to pick up a herd of sheep on the way over. As long as they're sheep that will feel scalded by shame over their wanton and wholly inappropriate behavior."

[Oh, for Christ's sake. You know, John, I have twenty-six other manuscripts I have to edit before the end of the week.]

John frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

[This is your author's first novel. It can also be her last. I'm just saying.]

Marcia turned her face into John's broad shoulder. "It's so unfair."

[See? She's got a shoulder now instead of a face. You need me.]

Marcia turned her face so that her cheek rested against John's shoulder. "It's so unfair." Behind John's back she lifted her hand and folded down all but her middle finger.

[Hey. I saw that.]

"Now, ladies," John said, pulling Marcia's hand around to rest over his heart and covering with his hand the obscene finger gesture she refused to quit making. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of amicable compromise on these revisions."

"Compromise?" Marcia wailed.

[What compromise?]

"I'll stay and do a walkthrough of the ruins of your home with you, darling, while we have an emotionally-rich verbal exchange," John told Marcia. "Then we'll go together and check into the cheap motel room with the bed equipped with the faulty magic fingers option that starts to spontaneously vibrate just as we begin falling asleep in each other's arms. I'll be too tired to do anything, of course, but that won't be apparent until the end of the chapter."

[Wonderful! Can you hurry up the walkthrough?]

"Maybe we should put on skates," Marcia snapped. "And what about the sheep? Hmmmm?"

John held up a hand. "In exchange, sweetheart, our sensitive, understanding editor will let you keep your summer reading group and your devastation over losing every material thing you own. Oh, and the massive guilt you felt about our closet quickie? Will be changed to a little guilt mixed with a delicious sense of naughtiness. And absolutely no sheep, ashamed or otherwise."

[Oh, all right, anything to keep this moving. I still want a mention of dismay for not saving it for the wedding night in there somewhere. I've already got my RITA accepting-for-the-author speech written.]

"See, darling?" John lifted Marcia's face and smiled into her tear-filled eyes. "It's all about compromise. Now, I'll go and call the motel from my car phone. You still have to retrieve your family Bible, which is of course the only thing that miraculously escaped the destruction."

Marcia eyed John's line about being too tired to do anything, waited until he squished away through the sodden charcoal that had been her home, and listened. As soon as the editor got up from her desk to walk down and steal the last Tab from the employee lounge fridge, Marcia quickly took out a red pen, reached up to John's last line of dialogue, and crossed out family Bible before writing in personal massage device.

A character had to do what a character had to do.

One-Page Plotting

One of my writer friends (you know who you are) dared me to simplify a plot worksheet down to one page that would work for all story lengths and genres. Of course I couldn't resist the challenge, so here it is (I plotted John & Marcia's story to demonstrate how to use it):

Plot Worksheet

Title: Angel’s Darkness

Main Conflict: John, a half-demon cop, and Marcia, a half-angel librarian, must stop a demon from using a mystical diamond that has the power to open the gates of Hell.

Subplots:

John must accept or reject his demonic side. John has always denied and hidden his non-human powers, but is now forced to use them to protect Marcia and defeat the demon.

Marcia must accept or reject her human side. Marcia has always tried to live up to her angelic nature, but her love for John and hatred for the demon makes her face her human nature.

The demon falls in love with Marcia, and must choose to destroy the world or rule over it with Marcia at his side.

Main Story Events:

John and Marcia meet on the night the demon steals the diamond; the demon uses Marcia to smuggle the diamond away from its guardian.

The demon forces John and Marcia to go on the run in order to protect the diamond and evade his attacks.

John and Marcia discover the diamond’s true purpose when they open Hell’s gateway for a moment and see what the demon intends to unleash on Earth.

The demon disables John, abducts Marcia and tries to seduce her into giving him the diamond.

Marcia must sacrifice her angelic powers in order to free John, vanquish the demon and keep the world safe.

Main Plot Twist: John is unaware that he has another persona, and that he is also the demon thief.

Resolution: Marcia’s love for John ends her hope of becoming an angel, but also destroys the evil side of his personality. Together they become a loving human couple, and the new guardians of the diamond.

This worksheet can be adapted to your particular writing needs, so feel free to add and subtract -- you may want more/less subplots, main events, plot twists, other elements, etc -- but I think these are the basic points any storyteller* should know before they dive into writing a story. For novelists, it may also serve as a basic outline sheet for writing a synopsis.

*Unless you're an organic writer or you dislike plotting, in which case, you don't need the worksheet.

Together Again

Now available as a free e-book over on Scribd>*:



As with the first John and Marcia collection, I've also added in some articles after each post in the e-book on how to avoid, combat and/or handle the writing problems involved. Click on the cover art to go to the Scribd document page.

*Note 9/3/10: Since Scribd.com instituted an access fee scam to charge people for downloading e-books, including those I have provided for free for the last ten years, I have removed my free library from their site, and no longer use or recommend using their service. This book and all of my free reads may be read online or downloaded for free from Google Docs; go to my freebies and free reads page for the links. See my post about this scam here.

Overpatchworked

That night John sat at his desk and studied the photographs he had taken of the mystic diamond in the museum in Cairo. If only he'd overcome his natural inclination to be painfully honest and law-abiding, and stolen the damn thing, Marcia would never have been placed in danger of losing her virtue, her soul or her darling little house in the suburbs, all of which she had devoted so many years to enriching and guarding and never, ever letting a demon besmirched, corrupt or destroy with plastic explosives.

A distorted shadow drifted across the window behind him.

Jane sauntered into the atrium, her black curls bouncing in time with her bountifully displayed breasts; her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. "Marshall?" Her pale blue eyes searched the room. "Oh, Marshall, where are you? I need you NOW."

John got to his feet. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"You don't recognize your own girlfriend, honeybunny?" Marcia, who secretly thought of herself as Jane, stepped into the library's overhead lights, which revealed that her black hair was actually dark brown. Her dark eyes, which sometimes only looked pale blue in the moonlight, met his. How silly she'd been, she thought, blushing, to mistake his library for an atrium, of all things. "I've had a very hard day at the law office, Marshall, and I'd love to unwind with a Manhattan. Would you make me one, sweetie pie?"

Two shadows darted past the window behind John. One was man-shaped, the other resembled a goat dressed in Armani.

John frowned. "You work at a library, you don't drink alcohol, and I'm not a Marshall -- I'm only a detective."

"Oh, you big silly!" Marcia laughed as hot color flooded her cheeks. "I meant to say, I'm tired from a long day at the library where I stacked a lot of books and remembered how I used to do the same thing when I worked at a law office a long time ago. And I do drink now and then, sweetie pie, I just never told you before now because I didn't want you to think I was a breast-flaunting lush." She tilted her head to look up through his sky light at the stars. "I thought he was called Marshall?"

An enormous shadow slithered across the window behind John's desk, unnoticed by Jane or Marshall. The shadow might have been that of a forty-foot-tall cobra, if cobras came with four heads and little pickles sticking out of their chests. If cobras have chests.

He came around the desk. "John. The name's John." He glanced up. "Why are you looking at the ceiling?"

"I could have sworn there was a skylight to the Story Goddess up there." Marcia popped open the first two buttons on her skimpy blouse as desire made her face hot. "Forget about it. Comere and give my babies a nice kiss. Don't be shy -- you'll never see a bigger or a better rack than this, sugarlips."

An army of shadows marched across the window, blocking out all light and hope with their evil numbers and dark, dismal, demonic, destitute, dirty desires, all of which they directed toward Marshall's nicely-shaped fanny.

John glanced down. "Actually, I have. Frequently. Sometimes hourly."

Marcia tucked in her chin, saw two small but nicely rounded breasts, and screamed. "Oh my GOD!" Her face reddened as she tore open her bra. "What happened to my implants? I paid twenty grand to have Dr. Sue gimme big beautiful bountiful bouncing bazooms!"

John carefully and respectfully covered up her nakedness. "Marcia, you don't have implants. You don't even have twenty dollars left in your checking account after you pay your bills every month. You give it away to charity, remember?"

"My name is Jane!" Marcia snarled, her color high. "I'm heiress to the Acme Slaughterhouse fortune! I don't even like books or charities! And why do you insist on calling yourself John, Marshall? What am I, a hooker?"

"No, darling Marcia." John took her gently into his arms. "You're a victim of a salvaged scene. Just as I am, darling Jane."

"But, Marshall!" Jane turned red with her distress and clutched at John's lapels. "We can't throw out all this work! It took her months to write that first draft. It must be saved!" She pressed her enormous breasts against his bare chest and parted her scarlet lips, panting on him a little as desire tinted her face a beautiful rose. "We'll just have to wing it, you hunka burning love."

"Stop acting like your first draft!" John thundered. "You've evolved! You're better than that slut!"

As the tsunami of dark shadows tried to cross the window behind him, John drew his gun and shot out the glass. The early morning light from the non-existent atrium hit the shadows, which went POOF! and were no more.

"Damn waffling shadow creatures. Now." John cradled Marcia's thin sweet face between his palms and kissed her pale pink lips. "Repeat after me: You are a nice girl librarian, I am a troubled but valiant cop. You are modest, I am obsessed with my penis. You are virginal, I should be a walking STD. You are Marcia, I am John."

"You are Marcia, I am John." She smiled shyly. "Just kidding." She glanced down at her small but nicely rounded breasts, which were almost buried under all the clothes she now wore. "I give all my money away to charity, for real?" When he nodded, she swallowed hard and eased open her tweed jacket, twill vest, white lace blouse and exposed her plain white cotton bra. "You could still, you know."

"Comere and give your babies a nice kiss?" John teased.

"No." Marcia blushed furiously. "Lend me twenty thousand dollars."

My Sweet Savage Salami

John closed the door and leaned back against it, enjoying for a moment the sight of the woman he loved preparing for something he adored as much as her. He hummed a few bars of Afternoon Delight until she glanced at him, and then said, "Marcia, it's time."

"Really?" His words made butterflies flutter in the gentle curve of Marcia's tummy, and she didn't know where to look. He was so big, so intense, so determined to conquer. All she could do was stand in the middle of the room, her hands neatly folded in front of her. "I've been anticipating this ever since we met," she told John softly. "Lately it's all I can think about. The thing is, thinking and pondering and fantasizing aren't the same as actually, you know, doing it."

"Don't worry." John put his hand over the rigid length in his pocket, massaging it a little as he straightened and walked toward her. "You're going to love it."

"Darling, I . . . " Marcia's voice disappeared as she stared at the betraying bulge in the front of his trousers. It had to be two feet long and at least eight inches wide. She sat down quickly. Had he been taking some sort of enhancer? "I think maybe . . . maybe it's too soon. Maybe we should wait until we're married."

"I know you're a little nervous about trying new things, Cupcake." John gave her a masterful look as he moved in, and the bulge bobbed under his pants. "But you know that there's absolutely nothing to be afraid of."

Sure, Marcia thought. He couldn't see how big that thing was. Did he want to make love or drill for oil? She took off her glasses, which thankfully made things a lot fuzzier. "But they say it's so much better on the wedding night--"

"I'm not waiting another minute." John loomed over her. "I'm starving for it." He studied her face and grinned. "So are you."

"No, I'm not. I'm perfectly fine. I'm . . . " Marcia swallowed, paled, quivered, trembled and then whispered through a throat so tight that her breathy words squeaked, "It's too much for me, John. Can't you see that?"

"So what if it's too much?" His smile turned wicked as he drew his hand out of his pocket. "We can save some for later." He ignored her shocked cry as he showed her the long, hard, reddened length of meat in his hand and let it drop on the kitchen table with a small thud. "What do you think, darling? Isn't it gorgeous?"

"Oh, my God! It's so huge!" Marcia scrambled to her feet and pressed her hands against her breast bone as her eyes bulged. "I can't handle all that!"

"Don't worry, baby, we'll take it slow and easy." John looked around. "Where's the bread and the mustard?" When Marcia only shook her head helplessly, he left the salami on the kitchen table and went to the fridge. "Do you want mayo on your sandwich?"

"John." Marcia's cheeks turned bright scarlet as she groped for her glasses, put them on and inspected the object on the table. "That's a salami."

"Of course it is. I know you said you'd never tried it before, but it's really good on rye bread. I told you one day I'd make you my famous salami sandwiches for lunch." John glanced over his shoulder. "What did you think, I was happy to see you?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." She tried to look stern. "When you whipped it out of your pants that way I thought it was something else."

John's brow furrowed. "You thought it was my p--?"

"Your manly part, yes," Marcia said quickly. When he began to chuckle, she stiffened. "I can't help it. You know how near-sighted I am without my glasses."

"Sweetheart, the kitchen table is the last place I'd plop my p--"

"Your aroused male flesh, I understand." Marcia began to pace. "I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions and mistook that luncheon meat for your you-know-what. I promise, I'll keep my glasses on and it will never happen again."

"I don't get it." John scratched his head. "This is chapter five. We had completely gratuitous wild monkey sex in in chapter one, and at the time you seemed to really enjoy riding my p--"

"Please don't," Marcia begged, "say that horrible word, or describe in clinical terms those terrible things we did."

"Penis is a horrible word?" John laughed. "Honey, it's a body part. Granted, one you don't personally have, but half of all the other people in the world carry one around with them. Like most men, I use mine frequently. I have to, or I couldn't urinate, masturbate or impregnate. And how else would I write my name in the snow?"

"Oh, John." Marcia's eyes filled with tears. "How can you be so crude?"

"Baby, I'd love for it to be called something else -- ramrod would be nice -- but when it comes right down to it, it's just a penis. And while you may hate it, it doesn't feel that way about you." He reached for her. "To be honest, it really wants to f--"

"Lalalalala," Marcia sang loudly, her hands pressed over her ears. "I can't hear you."

John forced her hands down. "What's wrong with saying I'd like to f--"

"Because nice people in love don't do that," Marcia said loudly. "We do other things, like getting swept off on a wave of passion, or moving together to unseen music until we become one, or hurtling up into the heavens until we find the ultimate pleasure together."

John stared at her. "Hurtling?"

"Hurtling." She thought for a moment. "There should be some fireworks, too. The inward, incandescent type. And white-hot wires running and sparking here and there. But no body parts words. And absolutely no Anglo-Saxon words for, you know, doing it."

"So I'm a roman candle? Or a pogo stick? What the . . . " John turned toward the PBW blog readers. "Kids, go visit Alison Kent's blog for a minute." He waited until all the minors had left the blog, and then regarded Marcia. "That's fucking ridiculous."

"John!"

"Or ridiculous fucking," he added. "Take your pick."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I'm a nice girl. And nice girls only use the very vaguest terms to describe body parts and intimate activities. Didn't you read the romance heroine handbook? It's how our authors perpetuate society's delusions of inviolate feminine purity. By pretending we don't know what to call our body parts or what we do with them." With great dignity Marcia went to the kitchen table. Gingerly she picked up the salami and handed it to him. "I'd appreciate it if you and your manhood-shaped luncheon meat would leave now."

"I'm still hungry, and this is my house. If all it takes to get my wires crossed and my fuse lit are some nonspecific words, why then." John tossed the salami aside and grabbed Marcia, lifting her up onto the table. "Gimme some of that taco, baby."

Taggedy

The soft, warm night settled around John and Marcia, a blissfully cozy chenille-like throw that cuddled the lovers' entwined limbs and tickled their bare cheeks. Cheeks that were ruddy with that special pinkness indicating recent, very intimate activity, as it happened. And their faces glowed, too.

"Marcia," John blurted out suddenly and impetuously. "Can we discuss something?"

"John," sighed Marcia, the contentment after achieving three orgasms enriching the exhaled name with feminine satisfaction. "I'm all ears."

John wrapped the slightly damp sheet around his manly chest, sat up and tried to think of how to confess what he had been pondering without sounding as if he were complaining before he murmured, "I've been thinking about us, sweetheart."

"Darling," Marcia purred like a kitten with a ball of interesting yarn (not, you understand, the imported cheap acrylic crap you can buy for $1 a pound, but that expensive designer stuff like Caron Bliss that costs an arm and a leg for one piddly skein.) "Tell me," she continued, picking up the thread of conversation and toying with it, just in case someone forgot she was the one speaking, "what about us?"

John reached for his trousers and then turned to look at Marcia while opening his mouth to utter in honesty, "We" -- he put one leg in his jeans, jeans that were comfortably faded but still a bit stiff, as he had hung them out to dry versus using the dryer as part of his endeavors to go green -- "never" -- he pulled up the waistband just like that very hot but sexually waffling young man in the Levi's 501 commercials-- "talk" -- he zippered the fly and fastened the button with what he hoped was a casual disregard for the fact that the woman he loved was watching him wrap his package -- "anymore."

"We're talking now," Marcia retorted with passion and the natural emphasis of her emotions, tossing her head as she leapt out of bed and jerked on her own clothing as her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled with temper and annoyance that made her assume the position of a highly indignant painter's anatomical doll. Her rich brunette hair settled around her blushing features as her lips, the lipstick on which had been kissed away during the last, loving hours of delight, turned a little white with her swiftly-shifting mood. A loose eyelash, uprooted by the more-rapid blinking of her eyelids, drifted from her upper lid to land in the crease next to her right nostril.

Jumping jacks seemed like the thing to do to work off some of his own ire, and so John began the exercise as he carefully formulated his response to her retort and let the words, which might have sounded defensive if he wasn't careful to modulate his tone, come up out of the spot in his chest that transformed speech into a cavemanlike guttural growl of masculine frustration as he blithely informed the woman he loved more than life itself, "I just want to say things." He dragged in a breath, filling out his muscular chest, now covered with tiny but sensual beads of sweat from this, the latest round of vigorous exertions. Would that it could have been from making love to Marcia again, but even John needed five minutes to recharge his supply tanks. "To you."

"Oh, for God's sake . . . " Marcia trailed off, first to a blown breath and then to a sharply-drawn inhaled snort of contempt, which whistled through her deviated septum with high-pitched irritation, much like the sharp sensation in her heart which provoked her to add with equally pointed intonation, ". . . . say whatever you want," she snapped like a fourteen-day-old oak twig left in a seasoning shed on a cold fortnight in November that knew no humidity, among the crackling brown leaves and the chips and wood dust left behind by the merciless teeth of the chainsaw, which seemed to her to be as destructive as the man she loved, at least whenever he decided to discuss things with her that were better left unsaid. "Whatever you want," she repeated, much more gently this time, because with her own eyes she saw that John was staring at her with weary acceptance and tolerance that made her own impatience seem ungrateful and childish.

"Tell me you love me."

Marcia frowned before she attempted to button the front of her dress to give herself time to compose a new tag for her dialogue.

"No." John put his hands over hers to stop the buttoning and composing. "Tell me you love me."

"I," Marcia offered, desperate now to gain some space to properly tag her words so the reader would know absolutely everything she was feeling, doing and physically experiencing, "need--"

John kissed her. "Say it."

"Darling, you don't--"

"Say it."

"I love you," Marcia whimpered.

"Don't whimper."

Marcia whined, "But John--"

"Or whine."

"Oh, all right," Marcia said. "I love you. There. Happy now?"

"Not yet." John grinned, picked up Marcia and without another word or dialogue tag, tossed her back on the bed.

(Dedicated to my ninth grade English teacher, who maintained that important published writers never stoop to use the plodding, unimaginative word "said.")

Overworkshopped

John sat in front of his computer and adjusted the microphone in front of his mouth. "I met Marcia on a Tuesday in June," he told his voice recognition software program, which typed the words onto the screen for him. "Strike that. I met Marcia at a Halloween party in October."

"Honey, I'm coming up." Marcia climbed the short flight of stairs to John's library, and ignored the stacks of books partially blocking the entrance. Why the man had to own so many books was beyond her. She pushed back her Trane ballcap to peer down at him. "Want me to grill some lamb tonight?"

John's expression turned as pained as his bad knee felt. "Sure, that'll be fine. If I'm not down put mine on a covered plate in the microwave."

"But last night you said you were going vegan because you're too fat," Marcia reminded him.

"Then forget what I said and eat mine and yours, and I'll have a salad later." John saw his words show up on the screen and ordered the VRS to turn off the microphone. He would have done it belatedly, but he felt an unexpected, deep and abiding aversion to using the adverb.

Marcia, having snared his attention, was in no hurry to leave. "You sure about that?"

"Sweetheart," John said, resisting an urge to drag her downstairs and have sex with her on the back of his Harley, "we agreed that two to four p.m. on Saturdays is my working time. Working time is alone time."

"Uh-huh." Marcia leaned over his shoulder to read the screen. "And you're working on catching that diamond-snitching demon, or does this just look like you're writing your weblog to lull him into a false sense of security?"

"My weblog is part of my work, and a very good ruse to keep the demon guessing. Like my quilting, for example." John beamed at her. "Did you see the new one? I'm basting it on the diningroom table."

Marcia ran a hand through her short gray hair, which had receded several inches. "I thought my hair was brown, and that thing on the table was a new tablecloth."

"What?" John favored his good knee as he got out of the chair. "How can you mistake a quilt for a tablecloth?"

"I don't know, but the kids are eating pizza on it." Marcia belatedly recalled that she and John had no children, and then kicked herself for using belatedly. "The kids from next door, I mean."

"Oh, honey." John sighed. "I can't bleach that top, not with all the crimson and pine patchwork in it. I'll never get the sauce stains out of that white polished cotton in the sashing, not even if I use my Tide pen." He felt confused by some of his words. "What's sashing?"

Marcia shrugged. "Something you put around the waist of a dress. And when did we start feeding the kids next door pizza?" When John didn't answer, she glanced up. "Temperance? We're a little lost here. What happened to the diamond, and the diamond-thieving demon, and the library downstairs with the pukey green wall paper?"

"That wallpaper was a lovely sage green," John said, sniffing. "Actually, now that you mention it, I'm rather puzzled about that Trane hat you're wearing. And why you're grilling, of all things. You couldn't boil water in Chapter Three." He lifted his gaze. "Are you revising the story again, All-Knowing and All-Seeing One?"

"Well, sort of," Temperance the Story Goddess answered in her disembodied fashion. "I went to a writing workshop yesterday. The speaker said I have to endow you both with aspects of my life, personality and of those I love in order to lend more authenticity to the story. You know, write what I know. And not to use any adverbs. Adverbs suck."

"I see." John looked down at his short, wide feet. "Would that be the reason I'm wearing pink bunny slippers?"

Marcia scratched the bristles on her chin. "And why I have a five o'clock shadow, and this unbelievably strong urge to go and change the oil on John's pickup truck? The unbelievably is an adjective, by the way."

"Truck?" John yelped. "What happened to my Beemer?"

"It turned into the truck about an hour ago," Marcia said. "About the same time the story got really dull, you became a writer and I starting acquiring some very odd gender characteristics." She suppressed a small belch and scratched her tummy. "Temp, you gotta do something about this before I start peeing standing up."

"Like give us back all the exciting parts of the story," John added.

Lightning struck an oak tree outside the house. "Are you saying that my realism, my authenticity, and my guy and I are boring?"

John looked at Marcia, who nodded. They both answered with, "Yep."

"I damn it. I knew that workshop was nothing but baloney." The loft vanished, along with John's aches and pains and Marcia's ballcap and body hair. The two found themselves back in the library, surrounded by the familiar hideousness of the wallpaper and antique furnishings that Temperance could never afford. On John's desk sat the black velvet pouch containing the mystic rhinestone.

Marcia folded her arms. "Temperance."

On John's desk appeared another black velvet pouch, this one containing the mystic diamond.

John eyed his handmade Italian leather shoes which, while more exciting and exotic, would never be as comfortable as the bunny slippers he had loved and lost. "So I take it we're not belatedly having unbelievably good sex on the back of the motorcycle, then?"

Flawopathy

John silently contemplated the view from the library windows. Although he had seen it a million times before, he had to kill a few lines before the woman he adored came in to confront him about the enormous, dark and devastating secrets he had been so careful to conceal from her.

Perhaps enormous, dark and devastating were not the right words, but his author had to knock out this scene before it was time to pick up the kids from school. For now, they would serve.

Marcia came into the library, her lovely green eyes carefully averted from the infant vomitus-colored wallpaper. In her hands she carried a large, important-looking envelope addressed to her.

"John," she said, her voice trembling around his name, "we have to talk."

"I've been expecting you, darling." He waved a hand toward the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down, please."

"I'd rather stand." Marcia opened the envelope and took out an eight-by-ten glossy, which showed John as a young boy. In the photo he was holding a wing over the body of a one-winged, helpless butterfly. "How could you keep this from me?"

"I should have told you, but it was such a painful moment . . ." He sighed. "I tried to save it, but the damage was too extensive."

"Excuse me?"

"I found that butterfly struggling on the ground," he said, nodding toward the photo. "Some horrible child had pulled off its wing. I found another, already deceased butterfly and respectfully removed one of its wings, which it no longer needed, and superglued it to the living butterfly in hopes of saving its life." He smiled sadly. "It only lived a few hours, but I like to think it had time to make peace with its creator."

Marcia eyed him as she put the photo down and removed another from the envelope. In this image, a teenaged John was holding an adorable little ball of fur by the tail over an enormous grinder. "I suppose you have an explanation for why you dropped this puppy into the hamburger-making machine at McDonald's."

"I remember that -- that was Bring Your Pet to Work day. I had to move fast to grab that little guy before he jumped in." He chuckled and shook his head. "Puppies are so gosh-darn curious about everything, aren't they?"

Marcia yanked out another photo, in which a twenty-something John was standing in an alley with his pants around his ankles and a young woman on her knees in front of him. "And I suppose this hooker was trying to help you find your navel lint?"

"Hooker?" He picked up the photo and studied it. "This is my urologist's nurse. Pity that poor girl wore so much make-up. You know how claustrophobic I am, darling. I always have my prostate exams performed in the alley behind the medical building."

"If she's a nurse, why is she dressed like a hooker?" Marcia demanded.

"It was Halloween, I think. Or Casual Friday." He shrugged. "I don't remember which."

Marcia's foot began tapping the floor as she tossed a photo of John at a bar surrounded by laughing men dressed in leather and spikes. One of the men had his hand in John's pocket. "And what did this guy want? To borrow your car keys?"

"He needed change for the jukebox." He smiled. "I had no idea when I stopped in that bar for a beer after work that I'd end up meeting so many nice guys. And the jokes? People with alternative lifestyles have such a great sense of humor."

She flipped another photo on top of the bar scene. "Tell me about you and this herd of sheep." She added another picture. "And this scene you appear butt-naked in during Paula Does Publishing." She slapped a third photo on the stack. "And isn't this you leading the insurgents into the capitol of this third world country?"

"Darling." John rose and came around the desk to take her fists into his hands. "I learned how to shear wool that summer when I stayed on my elderly uncle's farm to help him out. While I was in the police academy, I was part of a sting operation to expose the pornography industry's illegal use of minors in their films. I never knew when the Peace Corp sent me over to Ethiopia that those rebels would kidnap me and force me to spearhead their coup."

Marcia's lower lip trembled. "Are you really telling me the truth, John?"

He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. "Sweetheart, it's not like Pat Gaffney is writing our novel."

"I don't understand."

"You're not supposed to, honey. Just remember, I'm the hero, not a real person. Any unquestionably horrible thing I do will make me seem like a bad boy, until it's justified by our author in order to redeem me in the eyes of the reader and leave my reputation wholly untarnished." John pulled her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin. "So whenever you're given irrefutable evidence of my past mistakes, depend on me coming up with a skimpy, ridiculous excuse for why I did them. All right?"

Marcia nodded, and then stepped away. "I brought in the rest of the mail." She took it out of her purse and handed it to him.

John sorted through it, and found another important-looking envelope addressed to him. He opened it and took out a stack of photos. In the first photo, a young Marcia, her hair in pigtails, was leaning over and staring at the answers being written on an Algebra pop quiz by the smart-looking boy sitting next to her.

"Darling." John swallowed hard and sank down into his desk chair. "We have to talk."

Novel Outlining 101

Concept: To create a weblog post that presents a simple method of outlining a novel.

Plan: Demonstrate the method by using it to outline the post, then use the outline to write the post itself.

Prologue: Outlining Demo
Part One: Introduction to Novel Outlining, Definitions, Purpose
Part Two: Examples of Outlined Scenes, Chapters and Parts
Part Three: Common problems, Suggested Resolutions, Finale
Epilogue: Links to other posts and articles on novel outlining at PBW and elsewhere

I. Novel Outlining

A novel outline is a story plan, written in the abbreviated form of a traditional outline with headings and subheadings. We're often taught how to outline a novel in school when we learn how to write book reports. To borrow a theme from Jennifer Crusie's latest novel, the easiest way to think of it is as a story to-do list.

An outline is valuable in a couple of ways: it creates a map of your novel, so you know where you're going when you write. Depending on how detailed the outline is, it can also be the foundation or first draft of your synopsis.

An outline need not be lengthy or contain all the details of your story. It can be as simple as Peter De Vries suggested: a beginning, a muddle, and an end.

II. Outline Examples

The beginning of this post is the outline I wrote of it. It's the sort of outline I personally prefer: simple, concise, orderly, or just the facts, ma'am. Let's haul out John and Marcia and put some of their story into outline form:

Angel's Darkness by Temperance Rising -- Section Outline

I. Novel Part One

   A. Chapter One: Introduce John, Marcia, demon thief and mystic diamond at Halloween party.

   B. Chapter Two: John and Marcia prevent thief from retrieving diamond.

   C. Chapter Three: John's investigation of theft, diamond and Marcia reveal unholy demonic plan.

   D. Chapter Four: John and Marcia discover the truth about each other's half-blood, which should make them immortal enemies.

   E. Chapter Five: The thief forces John and Marcia to go on the run with the diamond.

Now all of the above are just main chapter points, or the gist of what happens in each chapter. There are no details of how we meet John, Marcia and the thief, or how John and Marcia keep the diamond from the thief, or in what way they discover they were born to be immortal enemies. For that, we do a chapter outline:

Angel's Darkness by Temperance Rising -- Chapter Outline

I. Chapter One

   A. Scene One: John and Marcia meet and have a quickie at the half-blood Halloween party.

   B. Scene Two: A demon thief plants a soul-stealing diamond on Marcia to smuggle it out of the house.

   C. Scene Three: John pursues Marcia and the diamond, and catches up with her at her house, where the demon is waiting.

   D. Scene Four: John senses evil, convinces Marcia to have coffee with him, and Marcia's house explodes.

Each of the above points outlines a scene in Chapter One. We have more details now of what happens while we're being introduced to John, Marcia, demon thief and mystic diamond at Halloween party. This may be as detailed as you want to get with your outline, or you can take it to the next level, which is the scene outline:

Angel's Darkness by Temperance Rising -- Scene Outline

I. Scene One

   A. John arrives at his friend Bruce's home for the annual half-blood Halloween party. There in the foyer he bumps into a beautiful human librarian named Marcia.

   B. Marcia doesn't know anyone at the party but Bruce, who is busy, so John takes her to get some refreshments and chats with her over the punchbowl.

   C. Marcia drinks a cup of punch which she and John don't know is spiked with half-blood aphrodisiac, and loses all of her inhibitions.

   D. John takes advantage of an adult version of Seven Minutes in Heaven to protect Marcia from the punch-spiker, and ends up having sex with her in Bruce's coat closet.

Now, you can put them all together, and you have a comprehensive outline:

Angel's Darkness by Temperance Rising

I. Novel Part One

  A. Chapter One: Introduce John, Marcia, demon thief and mystic diamond at Halloween party.

    1. Scene One: John and Marcia meet and have a quickie at the half-blood Halloween party.

      a. John arrives at his friend Bruce's home for the annual half-blood Halloween party. There in the foyer he bumps into a beautiful human librarian named Marcia.

III. Keeping It Simple and Useful

When you go to the grocery store, and you look at your shopping list, you see things like eggs, milk, bread, butter, and so forth. You don't see buy eggs because my honey likes them on Sunday or buy bread for sandwiches for the kids' lunches, my toast in the morning and grilled cheese on Thursday. You don't need that information to effectively shop, and you already know it. Plus you might change your mind and decide to use all the eggs to make potato salad, or take the bread down to the lake and feed it to the ducks.

It's the same thing with an outline. You just need a list of things that need to happen in the story. How much detail you get into is up to you, but I would keep it as simple as possible, so if you do decide to change something, you can without a major hassle.

If you're still not sure how you want to outline your novel, try outlining a novel you love by another writer. As with writing a synopsis, it's usually easier to practice on someone else's work, because the emotional attachment is different and probably not as intense.

Outlining a novel is becoming your story's architect, and drawing up plans for what will be built. Before you break ground on your project, make sure you've got the blue prints you need to make it a solid construct.

Related Links

On Novel Outlining by damongarr

Organize Your Novel by S.L. Bartlett

PBW's Plotting with Purpose virtual workshop and The Revised Novel Notebook

Writer's Digest Novel Idea Summary Sheet

The Synopsis

"Ms. Hartlace?" Jenny called over the intercom. "There's a gentleman and a lady here to see you."

Senior Editor Agatha Hartlace put her mah-jongg game on pause and cleared her throat, accidentally swallowing the Skittles she'd been sucking on. After coughing for several moments, she wheezed out "Do they have an appointment, Jennifer?"

"No, ma'am, but they have a letter from you." Jennifer paused and unfolded some paper. "It says you are interested in seeing the synopsis for their new novel, Angel's Darkness. They said they're here to deliver it."

These authors had no shame, Agatha thought, blanking on the book title. "Fine, whatever. Have them leave it with you."

"Um, they say they have to give it to you in person."

At this rate she'd never beat out the production team's top score. "All right, send them in." Her elbow bumped the half-empty bag of Skittles by her keyboard, spilling candy on the floor around her chair. As she bent over to grab a handful before the ten-second rule expired, her office door opened and closed.

"If you were a half-demon cop," a man said, "would you use your dark powers to solve crimes?"

Agatha banged her head on the edge of the desk as she sat up quickly. A tall, dark and handsome man in a black suit stood in front of her desk. "Excuse me?"

A petite, brunette woman in a pretty pink linen dress joined him. "Or would you resist the evil forces bubbling deep inside your soul," she asked Agatha, "so that you would not lose your humanity, or the chance to save the life of a half-angel librarian being stalked by a diamond thief?"

"I'd dump the cop and take off with the diamond thief," Agatha said. "I'm sorry, who are you people?"

"I'm John, the edgy but lonely detective wrestling to preserve his soul from the fires of Hades," the man said politely. "This is Marcia, my girlfriend."

Marcia elbowed him. "I'm also the half-angel librarian who is hoodwinked by the diamond thief at a Halloween party into transporting a soul-snatching diamond out of the protective walls of the house. Where the party is happening." She nodded toward her companion. "I meet John there, too."

"Of course you do." Agatha kept her eye on both of them as she reached for the intercom button, and then frowned. "Wait a minute. Are you two telling me a synopsis of a novel?"

"Yes. Angel's Darkness by Temperance Rising," John said as he sat down in on of the guest chairs. "I'm the protagonist. This is my love interest, Marcia."

Marcia laughed as she took a seat beside him. "His jokes are so cute, aren't they? I'm actually the protagonist of Angel's Darkness. He's simply the love interest, and the big plot twist." She pressed her fingers to her lips. "Oops. Better save the details of that for the end of the synopsis."

"You're giving her TMI, honeybunch," John said through his teeth as he smiled at the editor.

"At least my TMI is accurate, cupcake," Marcia replied, patting his hand.

Agatha sighed. An author who hired actors to perform a synopsis -- well, at least this would make an interesting anecdote for Mojito Night at the next BEA. "All right, so one of you is the protagonist, and you're both half-whatever. What's your story?"

"I've had a terrible life," Marcia said, her expression turning serious. "My mother sold me to gypsies three days after I was born. Then, after I spent many years telling fortunes and eating half-raw rabbits and stolen cans of beans cooked over open camp fires, I was rescued by my Aunt Millicent, who had been searching for me for years, as she never married and had no children of her own. Millicent never forgave my mother for that time she stole her boyfriend on Prom night--"

"I think Ms. Hartlace gets the picture, dearest," John said as he rested his hand on Marcia's arm. "Now, I was adopted at birth by a very wealthy couple who adored me, but who were also incessant travelers who couldn't stay in one place for more than ten seconds in order to die in a convenient plane crash on the day I turned twenty-one, so that I could inherit their billions. Before that I was raised by servants, went to private schools, that sort of privileged stuff, and frankly it left a bad taste in my mouth, so I went straight into the police academy as soon as I collected the life insurance and moved into Mom and Dad's bedroom at the mansion, because the only place I could sleep was in their beautiful old bed, not that there was any funny business going on between us when I was a child, you understand--"

Marcia studied Agatha's eyes, which were rapidly glazing over. "Sweetheart, maybe you should move along to the night we met, which is really the point where the story starts."

"Are you kidding?" John gave her an incredulous look. "I have another two chapters of weather reports and backstory to condense. I haven't even told her about my dog Rover getting run down in the street by the ice cream truck on that Thursday in late June, right after I turned eleven, and --"

"--the loss left you heartbroken, and you decided you could never love again," Agatha said, and yawned. "Been there, read that. You'll need to remove the dead dog from the book. Romance readers don't like animals being killed. Let's talk about the important details. Such as, when is the first time you two have sex in the story?"

Marcia glanced at John before staring at her shoes. "Well, not counting all the heated looks and erotic fantasies we have about each other, sort of on page five."

Agatha's eyebrows rose. "Page five?"

She nodded. "Right after my house explodes."

"We tell all of our backstory in flashbacks," John explained, "in between savage attacks, desperate car chases, Marcia's house exploding, other mystic but not too scary encounters with the netherworld, and bouts of increasingly passionate but non-consummated lovemaking."

"It'll all be in italics," Marcia assured Agatha, "and the page five thing? Is a quickie in the cloakroom at the Halloween party."

"It was not a quickie," John snapped. "I only do longies."

"Really." Marcia looked at the ceiling. "What do you want to call last night, then?"

John folded his arms. "I was tired."

The two began sniping at each other, until Agatha finally put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. "Enough. I'm only interested in the story. So you two meet at a Halloween party, and do the nasty in a closet, and then what?"

Marcia shifted uneasily. "You don't want to know about the very strange storm that blows up around the house while we're, you know, doing it?"

"Or what about the backstory of the soul-stealing diamond?" John asked anxiously. "It dates back to the time King Solomon had it dug up from his secret mines in ancient Egypt--"

"No diamond backstory," Agatha snapped. "Here's the deal. You two go home, tell your author that she needs to forget about all these useless details you're throwing at me and condense her story into a logical synopsis. It should tell me a little about you two, your conflicts and the other characters, but mainly it should chronicle everything that actually happens in the story. Save the rest of this stuff for the novel. Have her mail it to me when she's done and I'll look it over."

Marcia smiled hopefully as she and John stood. "Really?"

"Really. Now, if you don't mind, I have fifty other manuscripts I need to be reading," Agatha said, and gestured to the door.

"Thank you for the advice, Ms. Hartlace," John promised as he steered Marcia out of the office. "We won't let you down."

Agatha waited until they had left before she picked up the phone and called the legal department. "Prepare a standard two-book contract for a Temperance Rising. First novel titled Angel's Darkness. Paranormal romance." She listened for a moment. "No, don't date it yet. I haven't gotten a complete synopsis from the author." She listened again, and then chuckled. "Page five."

Darlingalingus

It was a dark and stormy moment. Well, it was.

"My dear, sweet angel, the taste of Tab kills many things, including taste buds and the first layer of esophageal tissue, but it didn't fool me into drinking your little tummyache potion." The demon waved the glittering mystic diamond, which he clutched rather precariously in one claw-tipped hand, and fountains of evil black lightning shot up from the ground on either side of Marcia. "Now, about our unholy wedding. I'm thinking, let's elope."

Marcia ignored the searing negative energy leaping around her, and the bazooka set at destroy-demons at her feet, to imagine John's rugged, handsome face. She loved him so much, and as the hair on her arms began to singe, she hugged herself and drew strength from that love. She should have told him she loved him before she left him with that novel decorator. For some weird reason, Marcia knew that every other declaration of love she had made to John no longer existed.

Maybe John would still come to rescue her. Now that the tummyache potion had failed, she knew, somehow, that only love could save her.

But where was he?

"Darling, I'm here with you," a beloved, manly voice murmured.

As the demon approached, shallow and meaningless lust contorting his face, Marcia backed up against the niche filled with demon-slaying swords and wrapped herself in the beautiful Teflonish memory of John's love. The demon could do anything to her body -- and probably would -- but he would never, ever touch her soul. Her soul, her heart, the very essence of everything she was as a woman --

"Oh, darling," John whispered. "I'm really here with you."

-- belonged to the man to whom she had given herself, almost twice now, and nothing could touch that. Black lightning couldn't touch it. Clawed, bloodstained hands couldn't harm it. Even the shrapnel-lethal-to-demons-filled grenade in her jacket pocket couldn't destroy it. It was --

"Darling," John's voice said, more insistently. "I mean I'm--"

"Yes, my love," Marcia whispered, her eyes blind to the demon and the lightning and the sparkling but tainted beauty of the diamond, which while the size of a canned ham could not outshine the small but stoic flame of her adoration for the man she would never lose, no matter what horrid sexual things the demon did to her. She rested her hand on the hilt of the knife on her belt, the knife that would only inflict boo-boos on demon flesh. "Yes, my darling. I only wish I'd had a chance to tell you my secret."

"Darling, everyone has secrets, believe me," John's memory said, sounding testy. "Now, when I said I'm here with you I meant I'm here, with you. All you have to do is--"

"I'm not interested in your secrets, honey," the demon said, halting a few feet away from Marcia. His delicious but evil scent enveloped her. "I want more of that necking we did in the back of my limo on the way here."

"The what you did?" John's memory yelped.

"I only pretended to neck with you," Marcia replied calmly, throwing back her shoulders and bumping into the edge of the shimmering, open, underworld portal through which only demons could be pushed. "I thought of my darling John the entire time you were fondling my unmentionable parts and sucking my tongue into your mouth."

"You made out with that thing?" John's memory made a disgusted sound. "Darling, I am SO washing your mouth out with soap the minute we get home."

"Really." The demon folded his muscular but evil arms. "And those multiple orgasms you had, Marcia? What about them?"

"WHAT?" John's memory demanded.

"Don't worry, darling." Marcia waved away the cloud of demon-suffocating smoke being generated by the black lightning. "I faked all twenty-two of those orgasms, of course." To the demon, she said, "I could never find real satisfaction with you, you amoral, disgusting, repulsive, soulless, conniving French-kissing dirtbag."

"I can't believe this," John's memory said, and kicked something hard. "Darling, how could you?"

"I would do anything for you, my darling," Marcia whispered, tears flowing like liquid crystal down her slightly dark-energy-bolt-burned cheeks, and spattering the top of the can of demon-repellent sticking out of her purse.

"You could have fooled me." The demon began carelessly tossing the diamond back and forth between his strong, clawed but evil hands.

"Not you," Marcia said, dropping the rope bespelled to strangle only demons. "John. I'm thinking of my darling John." She spread her arms wide and looked up at the ceiling of the crystal cave, and the crumbling stalactites of razor-sharp demon-poisoning crystal. "Do you hear me, John? You are my salvation!"

"Yeah, but with me, you had, what?" John's memory demanded in a sulky tone. "Two? Maybe three orgasms at the most?"

"You know what your problem is, Marcia? You're so in love with John that you've done nothing but talk and think about him since this scene started. You've ignored about a hundred reasonable ways to kill me." The demon picked up two rocks and began juggling them with the diamond. "I mean, love is great, but like heaven, it can wait."

"I could never love you," Marcia said, groping through all the anti-demon paraphenalia in her purse until she found her lace-edged hankie. "I can't kill you, either, no matter how much you deserve it, because my author won't let me." She bravely dried her tears and stood ready to be sacrificed to the demon's lust. "I have absolutely no reason to make this declaration now, either, but wherever you are, whatever happens to me, know that I love you, my darling John!"

"Noooooooooooooooooo!" the demon shouted, reaching for her throat, and dropping the diamond, which shattered on the cave floor like cheap glass.

Poof.

A cloud of smoke enveloped the demon, who shrieked once more in evil terror and then disappeared. As the smoke cleared, Marcia saw the silhouette of a tall, ruggedly handsome man standing in his place, and her heart went pitter-patter.

"Are you the poor, brave but helpless human whose mind and body the demon took over whenever he was chasing after me in this reality?" Marcia asked shyly. "That I have never actually realized until this moment, which, while convenient, makes me appear as if I have the brain of a carrot?"

"Yeah, I am." John stepped out of the concealing smoke. "I'm also the big plot twist. Surprise."

"Darling." Marcia pressed her trembling hand to her throat. "But how could you be the demon?"

"Ever see me and the demon in the same room? No. And I've been telling you I'm half-demon since Chapter three, remember? Now." He folded his arms. "About those twenty-two allegedly faked orgasms."

John & Marcia, The E-book

For all the John and Marcia fans out there:



The e-book contains all the relevent J&M posts from PBW over the last year, along with some advice on how to solve the various problems involved and general nagging. It's also free, and may be copied and distributed at no cost for non-profit purposes (see the fine print on the copyright page.)

To download the .pdf file, just click on the cover art above or the link on the sidebar under Freebies. Is anyone interested in an online, html version? Let me know in comments.

The Escapist Artist

"I won't let you go," Marcia shrieked, slamming her fists against John's chest. Blood from his soaked jacket spattered her face. "He'll cut your heart out of your chest, and then he'll steal your soul!"

John cradled her face between his hands. "If that's what it costs to send that murdering bastard back to the abyss, I'll pay it." He kissed her as if their lips would never again meet, and then slid his hands under her bottom. "Just one more time," he muttered as he lifted her onto the edge of the desk and pushed her skirt up, tearing at her panties. "One more time, I have to f--"

"Freeze!"

John drew his service revolver and hauled Marcia off the desk, shoving her behind him as he faced the stranger. The man wore a beautifully tailored white suit, a salmon-colored shirt, and a pale blue tie. In his right hand he carried a white-flowered mauve briefcase. "Who the hell are you?"

"Cantwrighthat," the man said as he held out a pink business card. "Concerned friends of the author sent me. I see I'm just in the nick of time."

John snatched the card and read the pretty italic printing on it aloud. "Euwell Cantwrighthat the third, Escapist Artist?"

"C'est moi. I've been sent to redecorate the story. Call me Euwie." As Marcia peered over John's shoulder at him, he gasped. "Dear girl, there's blood smeared all over your cheeks. Did John do that? Haven't you people heard of AIDs?" He whipped out a snowy handkerchief and tossed it to her. "Run along to the little girl's room and have a wash while I talk to your hero."

"Don't let him summon the demon," Marcia said as she hurried out of the room.

John shrugged out of his jacket. "Look, this isn't a good time--"

"No, it's not, which is why I'm here," Euwie said, taking a can of freesia-scented air freshener out of his briefcase and spraying the air around John. "This scene has become far too realistic and graphic for the delicate sensibilities of your readers, who, by the way, don't appreciate the way you've been handling the heroine. She's a lady, remember? Not a slab of meat."

John watched Euwie use rhinestone-studded tongs to pick up his blood-soaked jacket and drop it in a lemon-scented pastel garbage bag. "I love Marcia. I'm going to die for her."

"So that makes it okay to brutalize her first?" Euwie shook his head. "You were about to use the eff word when I came in here, too. Is that your idea of true romance, my boy?"

John blinked. "I . . . I didn't think about it."

"Of course not. You alpha types never do. Too busy thinking with that." The escapist artist sniffed as he gave John's crotch a contemptuous look. "Now, go get changed out of those disgusting clothes while I check on your lady. Use some deodorant, too. You smell."

"That's because I'm sweating."

Euwie shook his head. "You never sweat around the heroine, or tear at her clothes, or force her to have sex on a desk. When you make love, it has to be in a bed with candles burning and moonlight pouring through the window. Preferably initiated by her, after you're married and you've had a good long shower." He strolled out of the room and followed the smell of sweat and blood to the little bathroom down the hall. Through the door he could hear a distinctive tinkling sound.

"Marcia?" He tapped on the door. "That's water running in the sink, isn't it?"

"No, I'm peeing."

"Don't tell me that!" Euwie winced as the tinkling ended and a muffled fart erupted inside the bathroom. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Can't you wait until the scene ends?"

"Sorry. I had broccoli salad for lunch." The toilet flushed. "Euwie, John is going to battle a demon to save me from certain death. I just know he'll be killed."

"That's what you're supposed to think, dear." Euwie took out his copy of the first draft manuscript and thumbed through it. "Oh, no. No, he can't do that. All this blood and gore. We'll have to think of something else."

The door opened, and Marcia came out, her face freshly washed clean of every scrap of makeup. "I'm ready."

"For sixth grade, maybe." Euwie pulled out his emergency makeup kit and began fixing her shiny face. "I can't say I'm happy about this John person. You'd do so much better with a beta hero in this story, darling. They're too pussy-whipped to mess you up like this."

"But I love John!" Marcia wailed.

"Is that why you were slamming your fists against his chest, and about to let him schtup you on top of the monthly planner?" Euwie whisked sheer rose blusher over the apples of her cheeks. "Is that how a lady behaves?"

Marcia pursed her lips for the gloss wand. "I'm not a virgin, you know."

"You had a single, dismal experience in college that lasted three point six minutes in the back of a Gremlin with the boy who jilted you the next morning for the Homecoming Queen, and then quick, emotionally unsatisfying sex with John in Chapter Seven. All very forgivable. I wouldn't be surprised if it grew back before the honeymoon." Euwie's upper lip curled. "Now, repeat after me: I am not a slut."

"I am not a slut."

"Sluts do it with blood-soaked boyfriends on the desk. Ladies do the college thing to take care of the pain and bleeding prior to meeting the hero, have one brief encounter with the hero to establish physical chemistry, but then save it for the wedding night." After Marcia dully repeated the words, he nodded. "Right, that's the best I can do without a hair stylist or Botox. Back to the library."

Euwie and Marcia joined John, who had changed into faded jeans and a skin-tight black T-shirt.

"Why are you dressed like you live in a barn?" the escapist artist demanded. "Is this a cowboy novel now? And what demented creature picked out this godawful wallpaper?" He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I'm getting such a migraine. Both of you, sit down while I try to sort this out."

John and Marcia sat and held hands as they watched Euwie straighten the desk and use stain remover on the crimson spots John had dripped on the beige rug.

"We have a demon problem that won't wait," John reminded him. "He has to die before midnight or he'll use the diamond to fully restore his powers--"

"And he'll take over the world and make Marcia into his unholy bride, yes, yes," Euwie snapped. "I read the synopsis." He went to his briefcase. "I despise paranormals, they're beyond gruesome. At least there aren't any of those icky undead vampires running about biting everyone."

"But Euwie, our author couldn't sell the story as a romantic suspense," Marcia protested.

"I don't want to hear it. Ah, here we are." Euwie drew out a glass vial filled with a sparkling lavender liquid. "Make the demon drink this, grab the diamond, and then run away."

John took the vial and held it up to the light. "What does this do?"

"It won't kill him, but it gives him a very bad tummy ache. He'll double over, drop the diamond, and you'll take it away from him. No blood, no swords, no hearts being hacked out of chests, just some nice, tidy shadow beings emerging from the depths to whisk him back to Satan. Remember, like what happened to Tony Goldwyn at the end of Ghost? Mix it in some Tab and he'll never taste it." Euwie checked his watch and then took the vial from John and handed it to Marcia. "You'd better hurry, dear."

"What?" John stood up. "Marcia can't go!"

"Oh, please, do you really think a demon would drink a Tab for you?" Euwie sighed as he went over and retrieved the iron poker from the stand by the fireplace. "By allowing Marcia to square her shoulders, take control of her destiny and defeat the demon, she becomes empowered and superior to you. That's what true romance is all about, my boy. Fictional compensation for the fact that in the real world, we men have all the power, make the best salaries, and own everything."

Marcia squared her shoulders. "I'll be all right, sweetheart."

John frowned as Marcia grabbed her car keys and fled the room. "But what will I do while she's gone?"

Euwie hit him over the head with the poker, sending John crashing to the floor. "You'll be unconscious." He smiled as he took off his jacket and went to lock the library doors. "And, just for the homoerotic thrill of it all, completely at my mercy."

[Can Marcia retrieve the mystic diamond without wrinkling her twinset? Will John wake up before Euwie has his wicked way with him? How bad will the demon's tummy ache be? Stay tuned . . . ]

Productivity

A few new/revised ideas on getting more out of your writing time:

I know how much I harp on quota, but don't count or think about the number of words, pages or scenes you're getting down while you're in the process of writing. This can be as detrimental to your progress as backtracking and rewriting. Forget all about the numbers and simply write straight through your allotted writing time. You can get out your calculator and kick yourself (or pat yourself on the back) when you're done for the day.

Try using footnotes or comments as block tags. I've mentioned that when I can't find the words to describe something (usually setting), I tag it in the manuscript like this: [describe Central Park in mid-winter] and move on. Later I would do a search for the [] brackets and fill in what I didn't write. Recently I've instead tried using MS Word footnotes or highlighted comments to perform the same task. It seems to works better and faster for me than my old method, and I never miss a tag now.

Some potentially useful freeware* to make the most of your lunch hour at work (if your boss is okay with you using the company computer for personal stuff, naturally): Portable Scribus freeware is "a portable version of an open source page maker called Scribus, which is much like Adobe Pagemaker, which can help create professional looking documents, newsletters, magazines, etc. With Portable Scribus, you can put it on your USB drive, and plug it in to any computer, and leave not trace behind when you're done."

(A sidebar on Scribus: Author Jacques Centelles used Scribus to put together his lovely, photo-rich book on marine life, which you can read about it on the Scribus site here; there are also some notes on the site about another French author who actually published a book made with Scribus.)

Work out a scene timeline in your head or on paper before you write the actual scene. This is simply a way of sketching out the main events of a scene in sequence and in advance of the writing (organic writers may ignore this if it crowds them too much.) Example:

John takes Marcia home from Halloween party.

Marcia produces stolen, mystical diamond.

John informs Marcia that he is a cop.

Marcia attempts to run into her house.

John uses his half-demon powers to stop her.

Marcia gives John the diamond and insists it was planted on her.

John has precog vision and pulls Marcia into his arms.

Marcia's house explodes.

Finally, an interesting setting trick passed along from one of my high school students that can help those of us who struggle with fleshing out settings: you can furnish your character's house by cutting out bedroom, living room and diningroom sets from sale circulars in the Sunday paper or from furniture catalogs and taping them to pages in your novel notebook (historical writers may want to use images of period furniture taken off the internet.) If you don't like what's advertised, go to furniture stores and take photos of what you do like. If there's some element in the picture that you want to add or change, draw it in or tape in a replacement item. If you really want to get detailed, add paint, counter, rug and/or flooring chips from a home improvement store for each room. Now, how does all this save time? Before you write a scene in that room, look at the room pages in your notebook to refresh your memory about exactly how you planned it to look.

What have you found or invented recently that's helped you with your writing productivity? Let us know in comments.

*Freeware caution: always scan free downloads of anything for bugs and other threats before dumping the programs into your hard drive.

Protagonism

"Marcia, please come into the library," John said from the open doorway. As his one and only true love walked over the threshhold, he gestured to the sofa. "Do sit down over there, darling, if you don't mind."

Marcia sat and crossed her legs daintily at the ankle. "Would you tell me why you asked me to come into the library and sit, dearest?"

"Don't let my request disturb you, beloved, I beg you." John went and kneeled with the utmost courtesy before her. "If you would kindly comprehend that all I want to do is talk with you. Not about my request for you to come into the library and sit, of course. Would you be so gracious as to allow me to discuss something else with you?"

Marcia nodded.

"Excuse me, sweetheart, but I would be terribly grateful if you would put that head motion into words -- as long as it doesn't inconvenience you." He pressed a hand to his heart. "I'm sure you recall what Jack and Diane had to go through with that 1-800-CONSENT situation. If you have no problem with recalling that blog post, that is."

"If you have nothing better to do," Marcia said, tapping the floor with her shoe, "I would be gratified if you would relay the details of that something else that you wish to talk to me about that is unrelated to my coming into the library and sitting down, John."

"Naturally, I live to please you, my sweet." He smiled at her. "Permit me to say that my affection for you, if you are interested in such a thing, knows no boundaries. Except the usual, polite ones."

"I would love to express how hearing that your affection for me, in which I am interested, knows no boundaries," she said through gritted teeth. "Only I can't think of another synonym for please."

John felt uneasy, but forced a laugh. "Don't forget your manners, darling -- I mean, if you are so inclined not to forget them, that would be very convenient at this moment."

"Please -- oh, the hell with it." Marcia grabbed John's tie and used it to jerk him forward until their noses were only a centimeter apart. "I'm yours. You're mine. Forget about the polite chit-chat and kiss me."

"Please, Marcia." Sweat began running down the sides of his face as he tucked in his chin and watched her unknot his tie. "Please don't ask such things of me. I feel compelled to adhere to my innate courtesy--"

"Which does not make for very good dialogue," she pointed out. "You're polite as all hell, which makes for good Beta hero, but you're basically saying nothing. I practically have to give myself diabetes just to respond in kind. You're my boyfriend, John, not a robotic butler. I swear, sometimes I could just put you over my knee and spank you. . . " Her eyes sparkled. "Is that it? You want to play Big Bad Sexually Deprived Beta Hero again?"

"Oh, I couldn't impose on you like that." His eyes bulged. "It would be unspeakably rude of me to ask you--oomp." His eyes widened as she suddenly pressed her mouth over his. He jerked his head away. "Honeybunch, I entreat you--"

"Not for the next hour or two." Marcia whipped off his tie and gagged him with it before she pushed him back on the carpet. "Tell you what. This time I'll play the monosyllabic Special Forces demolitions expert who fell in love with you when I sat behind you in Mrs. Randa's second grade class and again during senior year but who ditched you on Prom Night to join the military because your mother secretly hated me for being so big, strong and sexy, and who never forgot you or had sex with another person for an unspecified but lengthy-seeming amount of time while single-handedly defeating thousands of terrorists and who has finally taken an honorable discharge to come back from the Middle East to claim my ancestral ranch, the millions in the saving account left to me by my maiden aunt, and have wild monkey sex and a subsequent, pseudo-shotgun wedding with my one and true love. You can play the one and true love."

John jerked down the gag. "That's backstorymbalance," he protested. "Not protagonism."

"All right." Marcia sighed. "You play the one and true love," she said, trailing her finger down the buttons of his shirt, "pretty, pretty please with sugar and me on top?"

"I suppose . . . as long as we understand each other." John tucked his hands behind his head and batted his eyelashes as he let his voice rise to a sweet falsetto. "Oh, Major Marcia, whatever are you planning to do to me?"

She ripped open his shirt and said in her deepest, gruffest tone, "Anything I please, Cupcake."

Excessetting

The dark and stormy night was not dark and stormy, exactly; in fact the night in whatever manner it would procede to manifest itself had yet to arrive. At this cherished moment in the sprawl of time, the present hour effortlessly hovered between a magical sunset and sensuous twilight like a slightly bipolar dragonfly, not certain if it might fly up in manic glee into the golden-fleeced clouds or plummet with withering depression into the purple depths of coming darkness.

Beneath these lovely if indecisive skies, a large and impressive house rose from an abundant carpet of well-tended grasses of many shades of green and flower beds spilling like rainbow pools at their precise edges, a stately house that many square, uneducated hands had masoned out of brick and mortar and low-income sweat. An eminently suitable house that served an appreciative master whose flaws, aside from some very poor taste in wallpaper color, were as scarce as the teeth of feminine chickens.

A house of houses, that waited for the unexpected visitor that it sensed would come driving like Mario Andretti down the dusty lane winding out from the huddle of the quaint little town not five miles away, waited with the resignation of the immovable, always waiting as it had been since it had first gazed through its some thirty-odd windows at the blazing globe of its first post-construction dawn, although not with eyes, as it was simply, beautifully, completely a house.

And so Marcia, she of the exquisite taste in wallpaper, came. She came in a cloud of raw sienna dust, came in her lovely green dress which she knew would clash horribly with John's library, or at least its expansive walls and their unfortunately-chosen coverings, came with her blue eyes flashing like sapphires and her sweet red lips compressed into a slashing line, came to the door of this magnificent house and hammered on it with a white-knuckled fist that moved with the vigor of a rainbow trout in the vicinity of a winter-starved, golden brown-furred grizzly bear.

The carved oak door slowly swung in, framing the man within, the man with whom Marcia had shared so many hours of appreciation of the unassuming, thirty-odd-windowed house, and those mellow, lazy if somewhat waffling sunsets that hinted at the possibility of an unprecedented rollback in time, much as the happy yellow smiley faces in Wal-Mart ads often precipitated rollbacks in prices, but perhaps not with as much avarice and sunny indifference to the dire straits of those forced to make the bulk of their purchases within its prefab, anonymous, unnoticed walls.

"Marcia." John looked past her slim, green-clad shoulder to gaze upon the last flicker of buttercup radiance sending its beams through the thick green lace of the leaves on the oak tree in the very front of the house. The tree of his youth, the tree under which he had first kissed his second-grade girlfriend Gertrude Hicks, who had tossed her carroty curls and screeched with the venom of a banshee before punching the seven-year-old version of himself in the belly. Or perhaps it had been Marcia; she had never taken his decision not to remove the deep, serene, soothing pea-colored wallpaper in his study with anything resembling understanding. "How lovely to see you."

"You're not looking at me, John," Marcia said, turning slightly so that more of the last of the ebbing day's light could bathe both of them in a gentle, luminescent glow that would have made round-cheeked cherubs with purest alabaster wings sigh with envy from their perches in the endless vaults of heaven. "You're looking at the sun."

"It is glorious, isn't it?" He smiled at the horizon, captured by the enchantment of the moment when day met dusk, when the long afternoon hours drew to a silent close, when he could draw the curtains and listen to the crickets sing to him from the depths of the small woods behind his modest dwelling, which--

"John." A hand waved in front of his face, a small but strong hand, a hand that promised as much pain as it did delight. "I've been standing here for thirty minutes. I'm cold, my feet hurt, and I'm bored."

"Wait, darling." John encircled her waist with his arm, gently turning her toward the magnificence of the yellow star that warmed their planet, that shed its power and glory over the fields to coax tender green shoots up from the rich soil, shoots that would grow into fine, sturdy stalks of yellow and white corn, the kernels of which held the sweetness and warmth of its touch, especially when liberally soaked in the rich, melting creaminess of butter, with perhaps just a tiny sprinkle of sea salt from the shores of faraway, exotic India, where--

"Snap out of it!"

Marcia's hand slapped his cheek, and so stunned was John that all he could do was gaze down at the face of his beloved, that delicate oval now tinted a light pink, a pink that rivaled the inside of a conch shell--

"I mean it," Marcia said, raising her hand in a menacing gesture. "Quit it, or so help me God I'll get the duct tape."

Her threat so unnerved John that he couldn't imagine how to better illustrate how menacing her gesture seemed. "Quit what, dearest?"

"The sun?" She pointed to the horizon. "Is setting. That's it. Get over it."

"The sun?" He smiled wistfully as he leaned over to gaze around her at the light symphony that danced over his retinas with the feet of tiny ballerinas in tutus made from the down of newborn chicks. "The sun is setting, darling, it's setting like a soft, lemon-colored feather drifting to the glassy surface of a silvery lake at--" his head snapped back as she hit him a second time. "What?"

"Inside. Now."

Marcia marched him in the same manner a drill sergeant might to his library. John tried to envision the interior of his home in a poetic and enlightening fashion, but she hurried him too much for him to compose the proper expository phrases.

"Darling, if you would just slow down, I could show the reader--"

"Every freaking inch of the inside of your house with more adjectives than Webster's prints? Spare me." Marcia shoved him into the library. "The readers are already in a description coma from the setting sun stuff." She gave him a furious look, a glare, a stare with lethal intent, a gaze that chilled him down to his bunions, and added, "Don't you dare start on me, either."

"What would you have me do, darling?" John asked, closing his eyes so that he would not be tempted to compare her to Blake's rose, or Faulkner's Miss Emily, or one of Viehl's diminutive, slime-coated alien slaver beings.

"I don't know." Marcia began to pace around the room. At least he thought so; he heard her footsteps thumping but his eyes were still squeezed shut tightly. "Talk to me? Do something to me? We're supposed to be in love. Not with the setting sun, not with this house, not with anything but each other. So say something. Do something!"

"You mean, use dialogue and action instead of setting?" He shuddered. "Sweetheart, how can I stoop to facilitate such vulgar prose? Our readers deserve to know my world as I know it, and see it, and feel it. I just bought the newly revised and expanded edition of Roget's, too. You're so beautiful. The sun is so incredible. This house, this wallpaper--"

Marcia grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "If you even think one nice word about this hideous wallpaper, I will strangle you with my bare hands. Which, by the way, do not move like rainbow trout."

"Very well." John swallowed and opened one eye a fraction of an inch. "I'll talk to you. I'll . . . do things to you. Are you sure I can't tell you how inspiring I find your--"

"No."

"Not even when your hair and eyes remind me of--"

"NO."

"Oh, very well." John sighed. "Best get out the duct tape."