Chapter 15
This is, without a doubt, the worst kiss in the history of mankind. Have you ever actually kissed someone before?
I prickle and write hotly beneath his words from my beanbag chair.
I’ll have you know I’ve kissed plenty of people. PLENTY. I live with mistletoe over my head.
Okay, that isn’t quite true. Unless we’re counting my parents, who still kiss me on the cheek more often than is culturally appropriate.
Still, this is the climactic scene. It’s the kiss. The kiss in a romance that ends with a happily-ever-after kiss.
To say I struggled through writing the grand-finale kiss scene is like saying the neurologist is a fine doctor except for that moment he does any actual surgery. In frustration, I give up and head back to my office.
An hour later, I return to find a new note.
These people are acting like they’re made of cardboard. Where are their hands? They are at their sides like eighth graders at a middle school dance.
He’s never underlined before. Used exclamation points, sure. Plenty. A couple of all-cap words, most definitely. But here, there is not one but three underlines beneath the words. I can practically see him in my mind slashing away with his pen beneath the glow of string lights and the smell of gardenia. We’ve given up blowing out the candle these days. We come here so often, it’s basically supervised all day long.
I bristle and scribble beneath his note. So I forgot their hands. You can use your imagination. Readers do that, you know. Fill in the blanks themselves.
His return comes promptly before lunch.
The reader isn’t going to be using their imagination here because they’ll be so annoyed that she somehow draws in one second and then steps away in the next. You spent eight sentences describing the tree they stand under and give absolutely no description to their actual kiss. They are acting like they hate each other. They act like they hate kissing.
I throw my hands up in the air and write the first words that come to mind. The truth.
Well, fine. I admit it. I hate kissing. It’s disgusting. It’s unhygienic. It’s a bizarre cultural phenomenon. Do you even know how many germs are in someone’s mouth? Six billion. SIX. BILLION. And how exactly, while we’re at it, am I supposed to describe tongues playing hockey with each other in a mass of saliva? Is that really what you want? If I were to be completely honest, I’d say the whole world should give up on it altogether. We should all just give jolly soft hugs to one another. That actually makes sense. And keeps you from spreading mono.
I return from lunch to find his answer.
Holly. I know this is really your pen name, but I feel the need to press the point by calling you by name. Be it any name at all. So, Holly. Have you really chosen to write romance when you don’t actually believe in one of its biggest tenets? The attraction between two people is imperative. If this is how you feel, you should consider a new genre.
I hesitate, then respond.
They ARE attracted to each other! They just . . . prefer holding hands. And anyway, romance isn’t just about attraction. It’s about companionship. You don’t see old married couples who’ve been through two world wars and five babies together making out on a bench when they’re ninety and think to yourself, Now THAT’S what it’s all about.
You see the way they hold hands, the way they serve each other scrambled eggs on plates they got on their wedding day, the way they shuffle through the paper in the mornings together without needing to fill the space with empty conversation. Because they are happy. Just happy. Together. That is why I want to write romance. I’ve seen enough insta-meet romances at conferences and in supermarkets. Books that presume instant attraction magically leads to a lifetime of happiness. But I know what really happens after the last page.
My chest tightens but I keep on.
I know what it’s like to be left because a man gets captivated by someone prettier, someone more graceful, someone who dazzles the room. So please, don’t try to convince me to change genres because I can’t capture a kiss. What I want to see in all this, what I want to share, is a story about two normal people, with both hiccups and highlights, who share a lifetime of companionship over eggs and wedding plates.
When my pen finally stops, I lean back in the beanbag and stare at my words. I sound too passionate. Too emotional.
Too . . . unhinged.
And what’s this all about, really?
A scene. Just a little scene. And for a long minute I think about crumpling the whole page up, throwing it in the trash, and never bringing up the scene again. But I don’t.
I leave it.
Because . . . well . . . it’s the real me.
And if there’s any hope of anything happening for us beyond the margins of my manuscript, I need him to see the real me, flaws and all.
I drop my pen and, forcing myself to stop thinking, to stop hesitating, walk out the door.
When I return that afternoon, he hasn’t responded.
But when I return at the end of the day, I find his words.