Page 8 of Sing it, Sam

Chapter Three

Multi-coloured autumn leaves wash onto the aged timber flooring of my front porch. I know staring at them from my window won’t help my writing, but every time I focus on the blank page, the cursor mocks me.Why is this so hard?

I tap my fingernails on the timber desk on either side of my laptop. “Stop wasting time,” I mumble, looking around my poky lounge room.

For a while, I toy around with a blank Word document, writing the nameJane RhynehartandJ. Rhynehartand changing fonts over and over before telling myself to get back to work.

My grandmother was considered the queen of historical Aussie romance. Writing is in my genes.I should’ve taken the time to talk to her more about writing, but she left us sooner than we thought she would.

One thing I know is that my book has to be set in a small country town. Whilst I’ve only been to Sydney twice, big cities scare me—the traffic, congestion and people rushing about transfixed on their phones. Give me the singing of the birds and the soft sway of country fields any day.

What about the hero? Billionaires—they’ve been done before, but truly, I wouldn’t know the first thing about writing one.

Then there are your broody, misunderstood rock stars. Your bad boys. In my experience, those relationships don’t result in a happily-ever-after. Even though I’d have plenty of material to write one, I don’t want a bad boy to be the focus of my first romance.

Stepbrothers … not my thing. Slightly icky, too, if you ask me.

Bikies scare the crap out of me. I’m too squeamish to write hardcore stuff like onSons of Anarchy. That one episode I watched gave me nightmares.

A man who has morals, with an honest job, and who is easy on the eye—that’s my man. Funny, yet serious when he needs to be. Strong-willed, but not arrogant. Handsome, but doesn’t spend every spare moment looking at his reflection in the mirror.

My next problem is my heroine. What will she look like? What will she do for a living? A florist? A farmhand? A vet? Apart from the small selection of flowers in my garden, my veggie patch, and the dozen-or-so sheep Mum and Dad had at the orchard from time to time, I don’t know much about any of those jobs. Maybe I should just focus on her strong values, her community spirit, and drive to succeed in whatever it is she’s passionate about. However I mould my heroine, I know in my heart she’ll be down to earth and kind. She won’t tote the latest thousand-dollar handbag, or wear designer jewellery, or drive a car that you wouldn’t be able to fit a few grocery bags in or, heaven forbid, a slobbery dog.

My first novel has to be perfect.

The perfect romance.

With that thought, I set my fingers on the keyboard. I decide on a working title for now, until the story begins to form.

A Perfect Romance

by Jane Rhynehart

Then I type what, in essence, my story will be about.

A simple relationship between a man and a woman, where all that truly matters is having each other, supporting each other, no matter what. Everything else is noise.

When I finish writing it I congratulate myself with a series of firm claps. My weight-challenged sausage dog, Butch, howls at my feet, as if mirroring my excitement.

You can do this, Jane.It might not be much, but it’s a start. It’s some kind of direction.

I create a page break and type ‘Chapter One’ and centre the words. The cursor flashes at the left margin on the line below. It blinks, one, two and three … and in the very next blink my mind goes blank.

Because, of course it bloody does.

I was hoping for something a little more than a sentence to take to my first meeting at the Willow Creek Writers’ Group.

I can only hope that tomorrow they won’t laugh me out of there.

***

Palms sweaty, wobbly knees, heart beating like a wild horse in my chest … it sounds like a good visual for a love scene. Instead, this is the picture of me walking into my first Willow Creek Writers’ Group meeting.

Writing is in my blood, but I won’t tell them that. That’ll just add to the pressure.

“Welcome, Jane. Glad to have you along. I’m Janice.” The woman toys with the pearl buttons on her short-sleeved mustard cardigan. Her eyes crinkle at the sides as she forces a quick smile. Grey hairs splinter the hairline of her dark brown locks. She looks to be the oldest here, maybe forty.

I smile and say hi collectively to the group of four women, giving each of them a moment of eye contact.

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