“Like ‘fixing’ instead of preparing or cooking supper. And the word ‘supper’ itself, instead of dinner. ‘Dither,’ ‘gentleman caller,’ things like that.”
“I guess those colloquialisms crop up now and then in my speech. I try and keep them out of my writing.”
“Don’t. They season it.”
“A little seasoning goes a long way.”
She acknowledged his point with a nod. “I see you’ve thought about it. You’re conscientious about using idioms in your prose.” Propping her arms on the table, she leaned forward. “You put a lot of thought and hard work into your writing, Parker. Why are you reluctant to have it read?”
He had the answer ready. “Fear of failure.”
“Understood. Creative people are cursed with self-doubt. It’s the nature of the beast.” She gestured toward his bookcase. “But aren’t we glad that most don’t submit to it?”
“Many do, though, don’t they?” he argued. “They couldn’t stand the ridicule of critics, or the fickle whims of the buying public, or the pressure of living up to expectations, or the darkest goddamn doubt of all, which is that they had no talent to begin with and that exposure of that reality is just around the corner. How many writers can you name who drank themselves to death? Or made it quick and blew their brains out?”
She thought the question over, then said, “Tell me, Parker, does that require more courage, or less, than becoming a recluse on an out-of-the-way island?”
The shot struck home. For several long moments he seemed to wage a battle with himself, then he whipped his chair about and rolled it to the worktable. He booted up the computer, saying to her over his shoulder, “This means nothing, understand?”
She nodded agreement, although she was certain that they were both lying. Whatever this was, it meant something.
“I’ve written a first chapter.”
“In addition to the prologue, you mean?”
“Correct. If you want to read it, I’ll let you. With the understanding that I’m under no obligation to you. Whether you like the material or not, I’m making you no promises.”
Maris moved beside his chair and together they watched the pages as they rolled out of the printer. “Does the first chapter start where the prologue left off?”
“No. The scene in the prologue comes toward the end of the story.”
“So you go back and bring the reader forward?”
“Right.”
“How far back?”
“Three years. Chapter one takes place when Roark and Todd are college roommates.”
“Roark and Todd,” she repeated, trying out the character names and deciding she liked them. “Which is which?”
“What do you mean?”
“Which one do we see in Hatch Walker’s office in the prologue? Who crashes the boat and who has gone overboard?”
This time his grin was free of bitterness.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she asked.
“If I did, what would be the point of your reading the rest of the book?”
“The rest? So you are planning to finish it?”
His grin slipped a fraction. “Let’s see what you think first.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Don’t get too excited, Maris. It’s only one chapter.”