Page 57 of Sing it, Sam

Chapter Twenty

When I sit down to write after dinner, I have to give myself a stern talking to. My head is scattered, and picturing Brandon and Ally takes more concentration than I’ll admit to anyone in the writers’ group, because again, I’m a fraud. The sad thing is, I’d rather be doinganythingelse right now.Anything. I know stumbling blocks are all a part of the writing process—at least that’s what they talk about in Facebook author groups—but dealing with it is hard. I want to write, I’m determined to get the words down, but it’s as if my head and my heart are in a silent battle. They’re not speaking to each other, or to my hands that are itching to tap out the words.

With a huff, I get up and make my way to the kitchen. The kettle groans as I flick it on. Once the water has boiled, I make myself a giant cup of hot chocolate in one of Mum’s old pumpkin-shaped soup mugs. It’s as fugly as anything—grey on the outside and bright orange in the centre. We’re a pumpkin-loving family, which doesn’t necessarily mean we have taste.

I drop in four marshmallows for a sugar hit. Maybe that’s what I need—a boost. I slather a slice of fresh wholemeal bread with a good spoonful of Nutella. Sitting back down, I tell myself there are no more excuses.

I have food.Check.

I have something warm to drink.Check.

Hmm.

I might need to pee.

I toddle off to the bathroom, pee when I probably don’t have to, and return to my chair. Butch growls and jumps up onto my lap. A putrid smell wafts up to my nostrils from him.

Coughing, I nudge Butch off me. “Mate, you’re disgusting. How am I supposed to write good romance when you’re practically farting in my face?”

He gives me an unimpressed look, and wanders over to the lounge and jumps up, his belly causing him to falter before he rights himself and settles.

Okay, back to it. For real.

Brandon and Ally.

Hunky Brandon sweeps Ally off her feet. Not literally, but figuratively, although being strong, lifting a lightweight such as Ally would be a piece of cake. I wouldn’t mind being about five kilos lighter myself.

Goddam it! Focus, Jane.

I take a few sips of my warm drink, and spoon two of the squishy-soft marshmallows into my mouth.

I know what I need to do. Jump straight into a scene. One where the two of them are slowly getting to know one another and venturing into ‘dating’ territory. A scene where Ally hasn’t given up too much about herself and is still pondering how a hunk like Brandon is single. Similarly, in this get-together, Brandon is still very much guarded about protecting his daughter, not wanting to introduce a woman to her without being sure that it’s worth the upheaval to his baby girl.

Maybe he offers to cook for her. Everyone wants a dreamy guy like that. Good with his hands and knows his way around a kitchen. Personally, I love reading about guys like that.

My fingers dance over the keyboard as I describe how they eye each other over a romantic candlelit meal, set by the fire in Brandon’s quaint timber-clad house, which has been in his family for four generations. His home is old and weathered, but he tends to the repairs, shirtless, on occasion.Because, of course he does.

Butch whines and nudges the bare strip of ankle above my sock with his wet nose. I jump a mile high.I was really lost for a moment there. When I look down, my furry friend is sitting, nose high in the air, eyes focused on me.

I lean down and scratch him underneath his chin. “If I hear so much as a squeak from your butt, you’re outside for the night. Got it, Farty McFartyPants?”

His tail wags like crazy. He knows full well my threats are empty. I pat the top of my thigh twice, and he bounds into my lap. “Okay, where were we, Farty?”

Staring at the document once more, I read the last few paragraphs before getting back into it.

After dinner, Brandon produces a plate of fluffy golden yellow scones.

Gah!I’m making him too perfect. He has to have some flaws. Like a pumpkin. They’re not all perfect on the outside. Some of them get scarred from the birds. Some don’t gain the glossy skin all over from being too sheltered. At the end of the day, it’s what’s inside that counts.

Goddamn it.

Pumpkin.

What the hell is happening to my creativity?

I try to snap out of it, to think about anything else they could have for dessert. Scones with cream. Golden syrup pumpkin dumplings. It’s as if I have yellow-coloured glasses on. My characters are doomed. Either that or they’re destined to eat the vined vegetable at every turn.

Maybe this is karma for having a laugh at Sam earlier. It brings a smile to my face when I think of his reaction while reading this.

---