4.
Well, I was right. This is useless. I’m not one of those writers who gets blocked.
I don’t say this to brag. I just never had that problem.
There are plenty of times when what I write is terrible, but I’ve never stared at a blank screen having no idea what I’m going to write.
I’ve always been able to crank out something, even if it sucks. Well, today that’s what I get.
“Her breasts called to him, those two mounds of flesh the color of ceremonial-grade matcha. She was eager, ready, practically dripping with desire. Her lidded eyes told him that untold pleasures were about to assault all his senses. He was overwhelmed with a sudden and earth-shattering ardor. It was a feeling he’d only felt for only fifteen goblin girls before her.
But a stirring in his heart told him that this girl wouldn’t be like the rest, that she would awaken something inside him that had been sleeping there.
The stirring of his cock seconded his heart’s assessment. ”
Ugh. Yeah, that’s bad.
I highlight everything I’ve just written and hit delete. That part about awakening something sleeping inside him—that wasn’t too bad. Maybe I can build a new paragraph around that.
The office is a narrow room on the second floor, west-facing, which means the morning light comes in clean and indirect with no glare, no shadows cutting across the screen at the wrong angle.
By midday it starts to shift, the light going from white to gold and pressing in low along the desk.
I’ve got the blinds cracked just enough to take the edge off without losing the view, which on a clear day goes all the way out past the point where the Andaman sea opens up and turns a deeper shade of blue.
The pool is directly below, just off to the left from where I sit.
I can see maybe two-thirds of it from here if I lean. I’ve been not leaning.
I keep typing, willing my fingers to keep moving so I can stay on task.
But my thoughts keep drifting to Thalia downstairs.
I’ve kept myself back from the window on purpose, but it hasn’t been easy.
She’s down there reading. And while that may not sound all that exciting, it’s my book she’s reading.
What does she think of it? Is she bored?
Has she given up on it to sunbathe instead?
Easy, Michael. You’re not ready to be this interested in another woman. Especially one who’s so much younger than you are, and especially when that much younger woman is going to be going back to her own country to start her life while you stay here in your beach house. Alone.
I start again, and this time the words are just a little bit better. Instead of the generic I reach for specific details, conjuring something concrete in my mind. Still not great, but better. I try one sentence and then another and before I know it I’ve strung together a full page.
I think I’ve earned a break. Not a long one, just enough to go downstairs and get some water.
I push off from the desk with both hands, the swivel chair sliding back across the hardwood.
I take the stairs two at a time. The staircase runs along the interior wall of the house, one of those open-tread designs where you can see the hallway below through the steps.
At the bottom there’s a small landing, a coat hook nobody uses, a mirror I try not to look at when I’m mid-draft and unshaven face is tempting me to spend time shaving instead of writing.
I walk through the living room to the kitchen.
The living room always takes me a second to clock when I come through it in a hurry.
It came fully furnished and looks like it was designed to impress rather than to be lived in.
Low white sofas that look good and feel stiff, because really they’re cheap builds, a glass coffee table, a large framed print of a temple on the wall that nobody chose, just ordered in quantity.
It’s fine. I’ve added nothing to it except a stack of books on the coffee table and the Singh by the door.
I fill my glass from the water jug in the fridge and risk a peek out the kitchen window.
The window faces the pool and the hillside drop beyond it, the view from down here flatter and more immediate than from the office above.
From up there you see the water on the horizon.
From here you see the birds of paradise along the border wall, the basalt rock catching the afternoon light, the deck chairs.
Thalia’s in one of them, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
She must have been wearing her swimwear underneath those baggy elephant pants because that’s what she has on now.
Just a bikini, hair tied back, sunglasses on, Kindle propped on her stomach.
She turns a page. She tilts her head and I think she sees me.
I raise my hand to say hello. She waves me over.
I should bring her some water. I set my glass on the counter and take another one out of the cabinet, drop in some ice from the tray and go out through the French doors. The heat hits again, that four o’clock version that’s somehow different from the morning.
She sets her Kindle down and sits up a little as I walk over.
“Thanks!” she says, taking a long sip that tells me she was thirsty.
“How’s the book?” I ask.
She swallows.
“It’s good,” she says. “Really funny. You didn’t mention that.”
“I don’t know if the humor always lands,” I say. “Besides, if your writing is really funny you shouldn’t have to describe it that way.”
“But it is! Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much. I thought a story about loving goblins would be kinda gross. But I’m into it. Even the—well, you know. You make the connection between Jason and Emerald feel so authentic. So alive.”
“Just wait,” I say. “It’s a technique. Once you’ve read a few, you start to pick up on all the usual tropes and conventions. The thing is, without those things the books would take too long to write. So there has to be a compromise somewhere.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says. “I don’t think you’re really that cynical. You’re proud of this. More than you’re letting on.”
She’s perceptive. It’s true. Oh, man. This girl. I really have to watch myself with this one.
“Well, I’m glad you like it,” I say. “And you’re right. I was wondering what you thought of it.”
“Which is why you came downstairs, right?”
I shrug. The sun has moved enough that the basalt rock is throwing a long shadow across the near side of the deck. Another hour and the pool will be in full shade.
“And to be a good host.”
She takes another long gulp and then holds the glass up and looks at it.
“Your ice tastes kinda weird,” she says.
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” I say. “That’s probably the durian.”
“What’s durian?”
“It’s this fruit that’s like a delicacy here,” I say. “Giant spiky things, like dragon eggs. Inside the shells, they have this yellow fruit that Thais go absolutely nuts for.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of these,” she says. “They’re really smelly, right?”
“Like diesel fuel,” I say. “But I’ve acquired a taste for them. I made the mistake of storing one in the fridge. The smell gets into everything, including the ice. They’re banned in most hotels.”
She hands the glass back to me and I set it down on the flat top of the rock. It’s warm from the sun even through the glass.
“I think I’ve had enough, thanks.”
We both stand there a little longer, both of us wanting to say something else and neither quite sure what. From somewhere below the hillside, the longtail boats are moving back along the coast, engines carrying up through the still air. End of the afternoon run.
“How’s the latest book coming?” she asks.
“Oh, ya know,” I say. “I haven’t really earned a break yet.”
“Back to the grind,” she says, miming a hammer driving home a nail. Then she laughs, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t even know what I did there. That wasn’t even a grind.”
“I get it,” I say, smiling. “You comfortable here for a little while longer?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Getting hot though. Might need to get in soon.”
Where my mind goes when she says that, I don’t have to tell you.
“Hmm?”
“The pool.”
“Oh, well, make yourself at home.”
I retreat upstairs. From the landing I can already see out the office window, the pool catching the changed light at a different angle than it was before, the water gone from turquoise to a deeper green at the edges.
I sit back down, roll the chair in, flex my fingers.
More determined than ever to get something decent out.
I keep trying to focus on the scene and the characters. But even though it isn’t time yet in the story, I feel like I had to write a sex scene.
“Jason didn’t hesitate. He reached out, cupping her sharp chin, pulling her into a rough kiss.
Her lips were cool, tasting faintly of wild berries, and she bit down lightly with a playful growl.
His hands slid down her back, gripping her hips as he pressed her against the cave wall.
She let out a low, guttural sound, her claws digging into his shoulders.
“Human strong,” she murmured, her breath hot against his neck as she tugged at his shirt, tearing it with ease. “Show me more.”
He yanked the tattered cloth from her body, exposing her small, firm breasts and the taut muscles of her stomach.
His fingers roamed her skin, marveling at the strange, slick texture, while she fumbled with his belt, impatient.
Soon, they were both bare, the chill of the cave forgotten as heat built between them.
He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist, her sharp nails raking down his back as he thrust into her.
Yeah, okay. Not bad. I keep clacking away until I’ve written not just one scene but two, and somewhere in the middle of the second one I’ve stopped worrying about whether it’s good. I’m just in it.