The Book I'm Not Writing: Inheritance
Isn't it freeing to simply play at writing? I think so. That's why I'm not writing a lot of books. You should not-write-a-lot-of-books too. In fact, at the end of this post, if you'd like to link up a brief piece of a story you aren't writing, that would be fun. :)
This particular story I'm not writing had its beginning at a restaurant. I overheard a conversation and thought, "Oh yeah. Perfect." That was about 10 years ago. I have a lot of stories like this that I haven't been writing (just wait and see). Some of them I might follow a little more. Like last week's. Maybe I'll post a continuation next week. In the meantime, here is another book I am not writing...
"I could make it work. I know I could."
George tilted his head, thinking hard now, calculating the worth of the Dodge sitting in the restaurant parking lot.
She picked up a packet of foil-wrapped butter and slowly pulled back neat corners. The butter was too warm, so when she went to gather it on her knife, it slipped onto her black lycra pants.
Traci swiped at it, only pressing the mistake further into stretch-cloth. She sighed quietly and reached for another gold packet. But now he grabbed her hand and stopped it, pushing her palm flat to the table before she could get her fingers around the new pat of butter. His own meaty fingers toyed with her wedding ring.
"If I sell the Dodge and your ring, plus everything that's in the apartment, and we borrow some money, I could make it work. I always wanted a ranch. How hard can it be to raise cattle? Come on, Traci, you know I can do it. You know it."
She looked down at her unbuttered bread, then off beyond him, to the exit sign at the back of the room. If she could just look straight into his green eyes. Or excuse herself to the bathroom. Or something. Her hair caught the light so that instead of looking like the vivid red she'd asked for at the beauty shop, it morphed into an odd dark pink that looked unreal.
The waiter came now. He set down a broad-noodled alfredo with peas, for her, and an oversized steak for George, who stabbed his fork into it before she even picked up her own fork. Her bread was still unbuttered too, and would stay that way for the meantime, since George must have taken the last portions while she was looking at the exit sign.
And now it was suddenly too late. She hadn't looked George straight in the eyes, and her food was waiting, and George was chewing fast and hard.
Do you have a story you aren't writing? Add your link below and link back here from your post. Thanks! :)