“In my experience, no.” Fiona grates a little lemon zest on her fruit salad. “Of course, Smith’s godfather, Willie, might have a different opinion. I can call him if you’d like.”
“That’s OK.”
“How’s the book coming? Have you figured out yet if your heroine ends up with the broody old flame or the newcomer that’s great in the sack? That reminds me, have you worked up your character’s birth charts yet?”
Fiona’s the first person I’ve ever shared my writing with, and there’s something exhilarating about being able to talk about my characters with someone who knows them. Not to mention the fact that Fiona is an incredible writer herself. Of course, songwriting isn’t the same as writing a novel, but Fiona’s a storyteller. She knows what it takes to pour your heart and soul onto a page and create something that will transport the listener or reader to another world. She’s the queen of details, hence the birth charts, and she’s an expert at sniffing out inauthenticity. That was my biggest problem when she first read my work.
Fiona could tell from the first chapter of my original draft that I was playing it safe. Last Christmas, we spent the holiday with them in Dubai. I’d been stuck for months in the worst writing slump and had convinced myself that I would never finish it. When Fiona asked to read my writing, I was scared shitless. Letting Fiona Mackenzie read your book is like letting Julia Child eat your microwave dinner. As scared as I was, I let her read it, and the advice she gave me completely changed the way I approach writing.
Your main character has no depth, she told me. You’ve made her so perfect, she’s boring. People don’t read books about perfect people. Perfection doesn’t speak to the soul. Perfection is the antithesis of soul. If you’re going to write, you must write fearlessly. You have to let yourself go. Be willing to be ugly and unfinished. Lay your soul naked and bare. Anything less is a waste of time.
Immediately, I tossed my old draft, gave up the idea of birthing the next great literary fiction piece, and decided to write what I wanted to read. Romance. Unabashedly sexy, sultry, and heartfelt romance. It’s the best decision I’ve ever made. Second best, actually. Eloping with Smith last month was the best.
“Nothing is set in stone for the heroine.” I sprinkle a little raw coconut on my fruit salad. “But I’m leaning toward the new guy who’s great in bed. He’s a Scorpio. The old flame is a Capricorn. Hence the moodiness.”
“I love a Scorpio in the bedroom.” Fiona carries her bowl to the table on the balcony. “Jasper is a Leo, but his Venus is in Scorpio, which gives the best of both worlds, in my opinion. He’s an excellent lover. You know, when Smith was conceived—”
“Stop right there.” Smith covers his ears as he stumbles from the hallway in his pajamas. “The last thing a man wants to wake up to is his wife and his mother discussing his conception.” He’s shirtless and in a pair of gray sweatpants, which is an ideal male wardrobe for all occasions as far as millions of romance readers are concerned. Myself included.
“Typical Capricorn,” Fiona teases. “I’m going to go wake up Monroe and Jasper. We may not be celebrating the colonizers’ holiday, but we can still gather around the table and have a meal together with good, deep conversation.”
“More conversation?” Smith pours himself a cup of mint tea. “All we do is have deep conversation. Can’t we talk about something light and fun?”
“Your father and I could share what we’ve been learning through our recent study of tantric sex.”
Smith groans. “Deep conversation it is.”
“Fine.” She pushes her thick gray curls into a bun on top of her head. “But I highly recommend the book we’re studying, especially for two young people with such good knees.” She kisses his cheek, leaving a coral lip print behind, before heading upstairs to wake Jasper and Mo.
God, I love that woman.
Smith joins me outside on the balcony. This—him with his tea and me with my fruit salad watching the gentle Persian Gulf waves—has become another one of my favorite rituals. Eventually, we’ll both bring our laptops out here and spend half the day working and talking about work and life. We’ve spent more time together on this balcony than we do most months back in our new apartment in LA.
“Good morning, wife.” Smith kisses my forehead. “Want to run away with me for a couple of minutes before this non-Thanksgiving breakfast gets started? I’ve got something I want to discuss with you.”