then said: “I think you have a remarkable imagination.”
“I’m glad you think so, though sometimes I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall to get some of that stuff out.”
“Silly question?”
“No such thing,” he said.
“Where do you get your ideas from?”
“Oops, I take that back. That was a silly question.”
“What!” she said, laughing.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he said, chuckling. “You had such a priceless look on your face just now. Forgive me?”
“You’re forgiven.... But I really want to know.”
“Not going to let me off the hook, are you?”
Joanna’s grin turned sly. “Nope.”
“Okay.... Well, the obvious and disingenuous answer is that they come from me, but that’s not entirely true. Sometimes, I’ll read something in the paper or hear something on the news that’ll spark an idea. Other times, I’ll come up with just a title and the ideas will flow from that. In the rarest instances, and this is the spooky thing, I’ll have a dream and get an entire story ‘beamed’ to me from my subconscious. When I get one of those it’s a race against time to get it written down before I forget the fine details.”
Joanna’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, I get that, too, with my art.”
“So I’m not losing my mind?”
She took another sip of her drink, licking a dollop of whipped cream from her upper lip with an endearing flick of her tongue. “No, you’re at least as sane as I am.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Absolutely. You’re hopeless.”
They both laughed.
“I think this coffee is going to my head a bit,” she said, taking another sip. “Seriously, though, you understand what it means to create and the dedication it takes. What’s it like for you when you know you’ve finished something? Do you miss your characters?”
Brian started to take another sip of his drink then stopped himself. What a great question. He’d never given it much thought, but she had a point.
“I guess it is a bit like the ‘empty nest syndrome.’ I live with them for so long that I really feel as if I know them, as people. So, yeah, I do miss them when it’s done. The only saving grace is that I can always pick up my book and read it and visit them all over again. The thing is I love the process. So many people want to have written a book, but they hate having to write it. I’ve never understood people like that. Anything I hated to do I always found a way to stop doing it. Is it like that for you?”
“Definitely. Every piece for me is like giving birth. When it’s done, I have something I’m proud of, but I find I miss the act of creation, the hours of sweat and frustration and the final, ‘Aha!’ when it all falls together. There’s nothing like it. Afterwards, I’m usually sad for a few days.”
“But at least you have the finished art to look at and appreciate—unless you sell it, of course.”
Joanna shook her head.
“You’ve never sold anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, that really makes us comrades in arms, doesn’t it?” He said, raising his coffee. “Here’s to success.”
Joanna clinked her nearly empty glass against his, her eyes shining. “Success,” she echoed.
“You want another coffee?”
“I’d better not. What time is it?”
Brian looked at his watch. “Nine-thirty.”
“Oh, God, I’ve got to go. I told Erik I’d be home by ten.”
“No problem,” Brian said, masking his disappointment. The time had gone too damned fast. He signaled the waiter, making the universal motion for the check. It arrived moments later.
“How much do I owe you?” Joanna asked.
“Nothing. It’s my treat. You can pay the next time, if you’d like.”
“Okay, next time, it is.”
Brian left cash on the table and the two of them put on their coats and headed for the door. Outside, the frigid air hit them like a slap in the face.
“My car’s just around the corner. Can I give you a ride?”
Even though it was a relatively
“I’m glad you think so, though sometimes I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall to get some of that stuff out.”
“Silly question?”
“No such thing,” he said.
“Where do you get your ideas from?”
“Oops, I take that back. That was a silly question.”
“What!” she said, laughing.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he said, chuckling. “You had such a priceless look on your face just now. Forgive me?”
“You’re forgiven.... But I really want to know.”
“Not going to let me off the hook, are you?”
Joanna’s grin turned sly. “Nope.”
“Okay.... Well, the obvious and disingenuous answer is that they come from me, but that’s not entirely true. Sometimes, I’ll read something in the paper or hear something on the news that’ll spark an idea. Other times, I’ll come up with just a title and the ideas will flow from that. In the rarest instances, and this is the spooky thing, I’ll have a dream and get an entire story ‘beamed’ to me from my subconscious. When I get one of those it’s a race against time to get it written down before I forget the fine details.”
Joanna’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, I get that, too, with my art.”
“So I’m not losing my mind?”
She took another sip of her drink, licking a dollop of whipped cream from her upper lip with an endearing flick of her tongue. “No, you’re at least as sane as I am.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Absolutely. You’re hopeless.”
They both laughed.
“I think this coffee is going to my head a bit,” she said, taking another sip. “Seriously, though, you understand what it means to create and the dedication it takes. What’s it like for you when you know you’ve finished something? Do you miss your characters?”
Brian started to take another sip of his drink then stopped himself. What a great question. He’d never given it much thought, but she had a point.
“I guess it is a bit like the ‘empty nest syndrome.’ I live with them for so long that I really feel as if I know them, as people. So, yeah, I do miss them when it’s done. The only saving grace is that I can always pick up my book and read it and visit them all over again. The thing is I love the process. So many people want to have written a book, but they hate having to write it. I’ve never understood people like that. Anything I hated to do I always found a way to stop doing it. Is it like that for you?”
“Definitely. Every piece for me is like giving birth. When it’s done, I have something I’m proud of, but I find I miss the act of creation, the hours of sweat and frustration and the final, ‘Aha!’ when it all falls together. There’s nothing like it. Afterwards, I’m usually sad for a few days.”
“But at least you have the finished art to look at and appreciate—unless you sell it, of course.”
Joanna shook her head.
“You’ve never sold anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, that really makes us comrades in arms, doesn’t it?” He said, raising his coffee. “Here’s to success.”
Joanna clinked her nearly empty glass against his, her eyes shining. “Success,” she echoed.
“You want another coffee?”
“I’d better not. What time is it?”
Brian looked at his watch. “Nine-thirty.”
“Oh, God, I’ve got to go. I told Erik I’d be home by ten.”
“No problem,” Brian said, masking his disappointment. The time had gone too damned fast. He signaled the waiter, making the universal motion for the check. It arrived moments later.
“How much do I owe you?” Joanna asked.
“Nothing. It’s my treat. You can pay the next time, if you’d like.”
“Okay, next time, it is.”
Brian left cash on the table and the two of them put on their coats and headed for the door. Outside, the frigid air hit them like a slap in the face.
“My car’s just around the corner. Can I give you a ride?”
Even though it was a relatively
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