Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
But this is the problem.
How could proposing on a skydive be meaningful? Or popping the question in the sky à la chemtrail? Or baking that ring into a cupcake?
Down on one knee? OK, but where? On top of a mountain? On a beach? In a sailboat?
Should I do it on horseback? In a racecar? At a restaurant? On a tightrope?
Should I sing it? Recite it? Yell it?
Should it rhyme? Be catchy? Sentimental? Sad?
Should I cry? Laugh? Joke about it?
I could not decide, so I did the only thing I knew how to do. I—
“Aaaaand… time.” Shawn’s voice snaps everyone out of their private worlds and we all unmute and sit back, stretching.
“What’d you get, Luke? Let’s hear it. How many words?” Terry does this every time. Wants to know everyone’s wordcount.
“Nine hundred and forty-two!” Luke is beaming. “Beat that!”
“Yeah? Well, I got nine hundred and forty-three!” Terry shouts. “Whoo, yeah!” Terry wants to know our word counts first because then he just adds one to his count and proclaims himself the winner every time. “How about you, Shawn?” Terry asks.
“Six hundred and fifty-two,” Shawn replies.
“Nice,” we all agree.
“And you, Steve?” Shawn asks.
I check my words and shrug. “I only got two hundred twenty-nine. But in my defense, I’m kind of excited about today, so…”
“It’s a big day,” Terry agrees.
“You did it perfect, dude,” Luke says. “I’m not a romance expert or anything, but your idea was genius. Pure genius.” He nods his approval.
“Hey! That was my idea! I gave it to him, remember? Everyone remembers, right?”
“We all remember, Terry,” Luke says. Rolling his eyes.
“OK, OK, enough about Steve’s love life,” Terry says. “Let’s talk plots. I just got Deckard Blake into the empty space station and there are aliens on his heels as I speak. I’m gonna need help here with how fast we figure octopi—octopusses, octopussies?—how fast do you think those fuckers can move on land if they have eight-foot tentacles and can breathe air?”
There is a friendly debate on the plural of ‘octopus,’ then the rate of travel on land, and I just watch my friends with a smile. Why wasn’t I sprinting with them this entire time?
Just because I wasn’t writing science fiction?
How dumb. We don’t need to be writing the same thing to have this writer comradery. I wasted ten years thinking like that.
“How about you, Steve?” Luke asks. “What were you writing?”
“Oh, McKay and Adam are in the shower having a kiss.”
Shawn spits out his coffee. “What?”
Everyone laughs.
“You were just writing a MM sex scene?” Shawn says. “In front of us? Dude!”
“What? It’s what I do.” I lean back in my chair again, smiling like an idiot. I love shocking them like this. It’s fun. Keeps things interesting.
They’re just about to start ribbing me when my doorbell rings.
We all lean forward, making faces of surprise.
“Is that it?” Terry asks. “Is it here?”
I check the time—noon exactly. “It’s here. I gotta go, guys. I’ll let you know how it shakes out tomorrow.”
“Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel,” Terry says.
And then I click out of the Boom call.
My lovely Cordelia likes a routine. This applies to her daily writing schedule too. So when I planned my proposal I kept this schedule in mind. She gets up every day at eight, has her coffee, goes for a little walk to gather her thoughts, and then, at nine a.m. every morning, she enters her office and writes until eleven forty-five.
We meet for lunch every day at noon. But she likes to arrive in the kitchen early. Usually we just have sandwiches or cheese and crackers. Something easy. We sit outside under the covered patio and enjoy our expansive ocean view.
We’re gonna do that today, too. But there’s a twist in this predictable story. And as I make my way downstairs, I even get to see it in action as Cordy opens the front door and greets the courier she just let through our front gate.
“Thank you,” she says, accepting the package. There’s a little tip jar on a table in the foyer, so she gets out some cash and hands it to him. He tips an imaginary hat, and then retreats.
I’m still coming down the stairs, watching her through a decorative cut-out in the wall. She holds the package—which is wrapped in blue sparkle paper—and looks at it with curiosity. I catch a little “Hmm,” coming out of her mouth as I make my final descent to the living room.
She looks over at me. “Someone sent something.”
“Is it for you?” I ask, walking over to her.
“It is. I wonder what it is?”
“Open it up.”
She senses something and shoots me a smile. “What is this? Did you send this?”
“Open it up.”
She laughs a little, then takes the package over to the kitchen island and carefully removes the tape and unfolds the paper.
My problem… Should I sing it? Recite it? Yell it?