Tagged: romance

The Saga of Gigi and Pierre

It’s amazing that, no matter how conscientious you try to be about looking around all the corners during the outlining phase, stuff always finds places to lurk so it can ambush you during prose.

Naturally, we’ve known all along that Gigi and Pierre will become a couple, and that their bond will be tested. We talked about how things look from each of their perspectives, what’s different about Pierre’s attitude toward the relationship, etc. And we identified the moment when the first test will crop up. What we didn’t do was spec in a scene to show the fallout of that event. Then the prose draft had caught up to that point in the narrative, and this felt like an omission.

We had to discuss what to do about it. The default stance here in the Writing Cave is that we don’t like scenes that exist solely for depicting Relationship Drama. Words like “soapy” get tossed around sometimes. Scenes need to earn their keep, and we love it when they accomplish more than one job. So, we tried to talk ourselves into sticking with the blueprint, i.e., not adding a unitasker relationship scene and thus keeping the Gigi/Pierre breakup implicit.

Thing is, our original concern was that not making the couple fight explicit leaves a gap in the story. And that’s because the real rule about scenes earning their keep is that you include the ones that carry the story. Ask, “what’s this story about?” and, “what is this scene about?” When they line up, you have a winner. (NB, stay alert for too much of a good thing; if you showed it already, you probably don’t have to show it again.)

The story can be “about” multiple things. In our case, it’s about ghosts and it’s also about this Gigi/Pierre thing. Their romance and its ups and downs shape the choices they will be making later on. So, while we don’t want to give anybody soap poisoning, we need to give readers a decoder ring for why those two behave the way they do. So, this instance of Relationship Drama merits a scene, even if that’s the only job it does.

A good writing partner is someone you work well with, so that the soap operatics are confined to the page.

Brandita Wasn’t Her Real Name

  • by jenWhat is the good of the love of a woman when her name must needs be Delilah?
  • learned how to play the accordion
  • ravaged by scurvy
  • like an eggshell
  • color combination was a bold one

Tune in next time part 569    Click Here for Earlier Installments

Brandita wasn’t her real name, of course. She’d changed it after a failed teenage romance at the Academy when her callous beau said, “What is the good of the love of a woman when her name must needs be Delilah?” He was an ass, but Delilah took his proclamation to heart. She started calling herself Brandita, learned how to play the accordion, joined up with a band of pirates (the musical kind of band — she had no interest in going to sea where she might be ravaged by scurvy), and got her new name tattooed on her neck, colorfully, like an eggshell on Easter. The tattooist was either colorblind or high, because the color combination was a bold one. I hadn’t seen her in years, not since I baroquely insulted her given name so we would break up and I could pursue Tessa.

Could I trust her not to hold a grudge? And who was the fellow in the sidecar?

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For Four Days My Military Zeppelin Soared Through the Sky

  • by jengreat unconquerable natural wonder
  • grow weary of having a whimsical name
  • stories of properly requited love
  • crystal crown
  • like two cats with their tails tied together

Tune in next time part 427      Click Here for Earlier Installments

For four days my military zeppelin soared through the sky toward Enigma Fortress, and the entire time my libido was a great unconquerable natural wonder, despite the best efforts of Yolanda the Yodeler. She went about the gondola scantily clad, and insisted that I call her YoYo. I myself would grow weary of having a whimsical name like that. It’s good that my moniker is so sensible.

When we were still one day out from the fortress, the Paradoxica Mountains appeared below us. YoYo became desperate to have her way with me, and I must admit I found her frenzy both flattering and arousing. I had become quite accustomed to frequent releases and my four day dry spell felt interminable.

As I held YoYo at arms’ length I asked her why she was so desperate. I needed to know what it was that made my fluids so exotic and desirable. She pouted and told me stories of properly requited love, implying that it was me she coveted and not the substances my body produced. She knocked the General hat from my head and replaced it with a crystal crown, declaring me the king of her heart. I could resist her charms no longer, and we made love in the Contrarian fashion. Instead of doggy-style, it’s like two cats with their tails tied together. It’s quite ritualistic, and took most of the rest of our flight time.

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Edwina Has a Tendency

  • k-avatarI want to kiss you but I can’t
  • with the books and the plants
  • to curse and get nasty
  • I lit her cigarette
  • hid myself therein for many, many months

Edwina has a tendency to curse and get nasty when she hasn’t had a fix, so I lit her cigarette as quickly as possible. She took a long drag before muttering around the tube of putrid death pinched squarely in the center of her lips, “I want to kiss you but I can’t take this coffin nail out of my mouth.” Another lengthy drag and half of the cigarette was drooping ashes. “So you’ll have to wait,” she added, her words emerging in a gray plume that scattered flakes of ash into my face. I forgave her. Poor thing hadn’t had a smoke in almost a year. Her father kept her locked away in the conservatory with the books and the plants. Meanwhile, I nearly got caught sneaking around the grounds. I dashed to the cabana and hid myself therein for many, many months until the seasons turned and Edwina’s parents stopped using the pool so much and I could finally join her indoors.

 

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Blaine Approached the Tennis Court

  • by jenin small gold letters
  • five minutes or an hour
  • your love was just a game
  • “Let him speak!”
  • so weak and emaciated

Blaine approached the tennis court bleachers where Lucille sat with her gaggle of girlfriends, watching the match. She saw him coming and stood to leave, but Gertrude grabbed her by the elbow and said, “Let him speak!”

It mattered not if he spoke for five minutes or an hour, Blaine knew he had no hope of winning her back, so he read the speech he had prepared ahead of time which was printed in small gold letters on an index card and cupped in the palm of his left hand. “Your love was just a game, Lucille, like tennis, and I so weak and emaciated from the nonstop playing of it that I could not help but lose.”

And with what little dignity he still possessed, he turned and strode away, leaving Gertrude and the others all awhisper.

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Whenever She Talked About Dieter

  • by jenwhen she found out he was married
  • exaggerated his size
  • seating configuration woes
  • blue-gray vest with silvery buttons.
  • now have caught up with the Hamburger

Whenever she talked about Dieter, Brittany exaggerated his size, both in the financial and genital departments. She planned an elaborate dinner party to introduce him to her entire family. But when she found out he was married, to some hausfrau in Hamburg, the small apartment’s seating configuration woes seemed hardly worth mentioning, at least not in comparison to her vendetta.

“His lies now have caught up with the Hamburger, as has the woman he scorned,” Brittany growled. “Hell hath no fury, Dieter.”

There were tears on his blue-gray vest with silvery buttons, along with blood and sweat. Brittany had at least never had to exaggerate the size of his wardrobe.

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Ofttimes In My Job as a Wedding Planner

  • by jenplays cat and mouse with the yakuza
  • simply wasn’t awesome enough
  • in blissful ignorance of the preparations
  • liked each other sincerely enough that there was little awkwardness
  • one helluva romp

Ofttimes in my job as a wedding planner I am at the beck and call of a very demanding and challenging bride, but none in my experience were worse than Catrinka. Popular culture calls these women “Bridezillas” but I see Catrinka as a different sort of Japanese-inspired trope: the geisha who plays cat and mouse with the yakuza and Daddy’s checkbook.

Nothing could please Catrinka. No matter how spectacular or expensive an item or venue, it simply wasn’t awesome enough for Catrinka. Her groom-to-be, Harold, meanwhile meandered along in blissful ignorance of the preparations. He cared naught for the details of the wedding or reception as long as the bachelor party was, in his words, “one helluva romp.” Catrinka didn’t give a fig what he and his friends got up to with the strippers as long as Harold arrived on time to the wedding wearing the proper color bow tie and socks. The betrothed liked each other sincerely enough that there was little awkwardness in this arrangement. And the checks all cleared, so I suppose I ultimately have nothing to complain about.

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Rodrigo Chuckled Softly

  • by jenI’m very sensitive to smell
  • in a tizzy about the specter of sweaty boobs
  • Summer’s Eve can go douche itself
  • for nearly a week
  • killed in a skiing accident

Rodrigo chuckled softly and tugged on the waistband of Siobhan’s panties. “Summer’s Eve can go douche itself, babe. I’m very sensitive to smell and I’ve never noticed a problem.”

“I’d rather be killed in a skiing accident than have an embarrassing odor,” Siobhan simpered.

For nearly a week she’d been fretting about feminine hygiene. This was almost as bad as the time they went to the beach and she worked herself up in a tizzy about the specter of sweaty boobs. Rodrigo wished she could see herself as the beautiful woman she was, and not pay any attention to the predatory marketing efforts of the world’s “beauty” conglomerates.

Rodrigo winked and tugged Siobhan’s panties lower. “Give me an hour and we’ll get you good and stinky. Deal?”

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“How Much Do You Drink?” She Asked.

  • by jenHow much do you drink?
  • on the Indonesian island of Flores
  • looks pretty cute in his mugshot
  • vital, sunburnt, carefree
  • dazed but not seriously injured

How much do you drink?” she asked.

“Like I’m on vacation on the Indonesian island of Flores,” he assured.

She eyed him with a smirk. “You look like a guy who looks pretty cute in his mugshot: vital, sunburnt, carefree. Like the bar fight you were arrested for left you dazed but not seriously injured.”

He shrugged and she admired his lazy smile. “But in any case, you have the right to remain silent.” She cuffed his wrists together behind his back. “I’ll have to ask the booking officer if I can have a copy of your mugshot to see if I’m right.”

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“I Don’t Care That You’re Married, Genevieve”

  1. by jenCharacter – cheating wife
  2. Setting – witch’s cottage
  3. Object – sequined handbag
  4. Situation – I smell smoke

“I don’t care that you’re married, Genevieve,” cried Wilhelm. “So am I, and I won’t let it keep us apart.”

The beautiful raven-haired woman behind the cauldron nodded and held out her hand, and Wilhelm handed over her gift. As she opened it, Wilhelm admired the pale green undertones in her silky complexion and the way the firelight danced in her deep black eyes. Those lovely dark orbs sparkled with delight when she saw the sequined handbag under all the layers of tissue paper. Or was it the smoke that made them glisten?

“Thank you darling, it’s lovely,” Genevieve purred. She pulled a ladle from the voluminous folds of her long black gown and scooped up some of the liquid from her bubbling vat. The fumes made Wilhelm’s head spin. Genevieve carefully poured the effervescent concoction into a vial and handed it to Wilhelm.

“Have your wife drink this and our troubles will be over.”

“What about your husband?”

Genevieve smiled lazily. “Let me worry about him.”

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