Page 68 of Only and Forever
Rubbing my arm, I tell her, “The meet-cute is when they first meet. Presumably it is—”
“Cute,” she provides.
“Right. Of course, many romance authors play with that idea of ‘cuteness,’ invert it, make it comedic, make it a meet-disaster, but I digress. The point is, that first meeting matters. Drawing your reader into it, taking your time with that moment, invests them in the idea of these people as a couple, byshowingthe reader their chemistry, their snap and sizzle and draw toward each other.”
She frowns in thought, peering back at the document. “So... instead of him saying this parallels their first meet-up, I could... show it? A flashback maybe?”
“You could. You could also just have him relive it a little. Notice things about the way this scene is unfolding that take him back to that moment. You want your reader to see this man loveshis wife; that’s how you complicate their suspicion of him later on—brilliantly done, by the way, I still have no idea if he’s a shithole or actually a good guy.”
Tallulah beams. “Thank you.”
I blink at her, stunned. That smile is... Jesus, it’s breathtaking. Bright teeth, deep dimples; the full, rosy apples of her cheeks.
Her smile falls. “What?” She sounds defensive. Which is understandable. I just stared at her for ten seconds in total silence.
I shake my head. “Sorry. Thinking.”
Her brow furrows.
“Anyway.” I scroll farther down the chapter. “I think this is the first of a number of moments where you should play with either brief flashbacks or slowing down the pace to describe tactile, emotional parallels that connect to their past. You could, theoretically, jump in time between past and present, but I’m guessing you want to—”
“Distance it from the time-loop element of my first book, correct.”
“Got it. Moving on.” I scroll farther down, toward the end of the chapter, a tense, charged moment in their kitchen. Or, it has the potential to be tense and charged. Right now it’s... well, it’s flat in the chemistry department. “Here,” I tell her. “You have a chance to once againshowthe reader their connection, not simply tell them.”
She rereads the paragraph, then peers up at me. “How?”
“You want to describe...” I scrunch my eyes shut, trying to think how to explain it. “You want them to feel, when they’re there, in the kitchen, like... He should...” I groan in frustration. “Sorry, I’m a kinesthetic learner. Seems I’m a kinesthetic teacher, too. Mind if we hop into the kitchen and I show you what I mean?”
Tallulah’s still for a beat, frowning in confusion. “Okay?” she finally says. It comes out slow and hesitant, but it’s an affirmative, and I’ll take it.
I spring up from the floor, holding out my hand. Tallulah claspsit and lets me help pull her up. I grab the laptop, then lead the way into the kitchen side of the main room. “So.” I set down the laptop. “You stand where she is, roughly. I know my kitchen might not be exactly how you pictured theirs.”
Tallulah seems to think for a second, then turns and stands, facing away from me, her hands braced on the counter. Just like the wife in the story.
I back up, then stroll in from the hallway. Just like the husband.
“He walks in,” I tell her, “and he spots her, right? Sees her standing with her back to him, with that excellent dancer posture, chopping speedily. You have this great creepy line, where he thinks about how vulnerable her neck looks, the way he pictures the vertebrae in her spine stacked like dominoes, about peeling back her skin to watch her spinal column at work, its speedy connection to those arms and hands that move so dexterously.”
“Nod toGone Girl,” she says.
“Flew over my head. Never read it.”
Tallulah gasps. “It’s a classic!”
“Oh, don’t get all indignant with me about unread genre masterpieces. I have easily thirty romance novels I could throw at you if we started down that path.”
Tallulah sighs. “Carry on.”
“So, after that very creepy thought, you have him reflect on how they just had sex, before she came down to start making dinner, while he was up to whatever we don’t know about yet. You have him think about how good the sex was. Then you jump right back to action and dialogue between them. But you didn’t spend time in his feelings about their sex, his desire for her, those lingering...” I clear my throat, feeling my cheeks get warm. “Those lingering postcoital warm fuzzies.”
Her mouth twitches. “ ‘Postcoital’? I don’t think I’ve heard that term since tenth-grade health class.”
“Hush up, Clarke, I’m trying to be helpful here.”
A tiny smile peeks out. “So sorry. Please continue.”
“Thank you. So, if the goal in this revision is to find more moments for your reader to latch on to that romantic connection between the husband and wife, this is one. You show himactingon how he says he feels about their sexual intimacy, rather than breezing by it.”