Story ideas are crazy little things that come to me during work and other inconvenient moments, but never when I'm sitting down with the things I need to get the idea down.
Ever had that happen?
Happens to me every single day. And it's all great. It gives me time to flesh out stories in weird settings, to write out scenes in strange places so that they'll become easier to write down when I can.
“Good afternoon,
Mr. Crane.”
I was
sorely tempted to give him a finger wave as he rode away.
“You
shouldn’t have been so hard on him.”
I
managed not to huff as I went back into the kitchen. I wanted to ignore her
altogether, but she followed me. I nodded to the cook and picked up an apron to
save the dress I was wearing from abuse. I would have gone upstairs to change,
but that would have left me alone with Mary to lecture me about the fine art of
courtship.
I
intended to bake out my frustrations.
“He
fancies you, you know.”
I
gathered the ingredients for making bread, trying not to cringe in distaste.
There was no way I could, or would, get involved with this jolly sailor bold. I
rammed both fists into the dough, grateful it was easy to manipulate.
“Right
and the war between the Americas and the British isn’t going to happen,” I
muttered.
“What
was that?”
“How
can you possibly know that?”
I
spoke louder, hoping I hadn’t created a faux pas in the time line.
“I
mean, sailors are more known though they’re,” I pounded the dough a bit more
before beginning to braid it, “loos morals, lack of income, and even looser
women.”
I
pounded another fist into the dough, breaking the braid I’d tried to make.
“Constance,
are you really mad at him,” she reached over, taking my hands. I was prevented
from further kneading, “Or are you mad at someone else?”
I
hated to admit when someone else was right; I was frustrated. I wasn’t mad at
Officer Jonathan Carbis. I was angry at the people who were responsible for sending
me here to begin with. I was more than angry with those loses back at the book
publishing company who’d been literal demons. Angry that I hadn’t caught on
sooner – with all the books I’d made about such things.
I.
Pound.
Hadn’t.
Pound.
Seen.
Pound.
It.
Pound.
Coming!
I
slammed my fists into the dough a final time. The table rattled so hard one of
the pans fell off, clattering to the floor. The cook came running in.
Mary
was staring at me.
“I’ll
clean it up,” I let out a sigh, wiping my hands on a rag. The cook left again
while I picked up the pan and set it in the sink. I sat down with an ungraceful
thump, “I hate it when you’re right, Mary.”
She chuckled.
“It’s
a perk of being a mother. Some things just come naturally,” she took the
screaming kettle off the stove, pouring some of the boiling liquid into a blue
china tea pot.
It was
one of those fancy gifts from the in laws. Holidays and birthdays were serious
business around here.
[This is late - I got distracted by editing!]
