characterization / / the writing process

I knew she would never finish that fucking book.  Day and night, back arched like a cat over the desk in the spare room, typing and scrawling and howling at the moon.  There was no way she could finish it, because it was inside her, viral and undeniable.  The words were written all over her insides.  I could feel the sharp edges of the t's and k's when we kissed.  Her arms were the slender curve of a cursive l, her bellybutton an unassuming o.  When she wrinkled her brow in frustration, I saw all the scribble marks that filled her notebooks.  I loved that book the way I loved her, and I knew she'd never finish it.

One day she told me she was done.  She skipped all through the house in the glow of a 5pm sunset.  I'm done, I'm done, I'm done.  She opened that bottle of Merlot from Chris and Katie's wedding, the one she took from behind the bar, and raved all about it, even though I know she hates Merlot and all red wine.  She was crazy like a kitten for a few days, and kept grabbing my hands and shaking them in the air, purring, "I'm done!  It's done!"

Then came the form letter, that tricky bit of shameless self-promotion, and I could see the cute facade crumbling.  There she was behind the desk again, tugging at absent strands of hair, wondering what to say.  "Should I hire an agent?" she'd say.  I'd tell her it shouldn't be so hard, people write books and get them published all the time.  Another melodramatic cry, and again I would turn the corner with my cup of coffee, searching for a newspaper or some other distraction.