Rewriting Us

"What do you mean?"

"You said to let you know if you can help me. You can help me make sure that it is believable and romantic."

Her eyes went flat. "I'm not going to write your book for you Donovan." I confess that, back in my middle school and early high school days I got my mother to shoulder the lion's share of the burden on a few projects. So her response was understandable.

"No! Of course not! I'll write some chapters, and you just advise me. You don't need to write a word of it. I mean if you think of some dialogue that you think you would like, that's cool."

"Oh. Okay. But can I just ask you: Why romance, anyway? Why not a story about sports? Swimming was always a big love of yours, even if you were never as serious about it as your coach wanted. You already know a lot about that subject."

Though I am weak in other areas, I have always excelled in areas of math and logic. Same goes for any subject requiring memorization, like history. The two combined always made me strong in a debate, and I've learned to write pretty well too thanks to having so much to write for school. With a practiced ease I dumped the info. "In North America, romance novels are the most popular literary genre, comprising almost 55% of all paperback books sold some years ago. The genre is also popular in Europe and Australia, and romance novels appear in 90 languages. Most of the books, however, are written by authors from English-speaking countries, leading to an Anglo-Saxon perspective in the fiction."

My mother bit into her toast as she watched my recitation, chewed and shook her head. "Where'd you get that from?"

"That was from a wiki about books." I had googled "romance novel Wikipedia" before coming downstairs. "So, since it is the most popular genre' it seems reasonable to try aiming there first."

She smirked at me before tossing the rest of her toast onto her plate. "Well it was well said, but it still doesn't tell me what you're hoping to write."

"Oh," I said. "That's easy. I want to write a romance that would seem impossible."

Chapter 3

I needed this to be good; or at least good enough. Mom would help me at some point. That was fundamental to the whole idea, but I couldn't bring her something half-assed to start. It needed to be a serious beginning to serious effort.

I talked to a few girls in my American Lit class about romances. They started off high in the intellectual stratosphere, talking about The Romantics. Woah! That was a style from a few hundred years ago. I'm not trying to make history (or study it.) I'm talking about the sort of stuff you see in the book shop in the Romance section (or in our living room book shelf nowadays.) Two of the girls said they hadn't read anything like that since middle school. The third young woman had a dog-eared copy of a title with a half stripped woman and a shirtless man on the cover. I bought her lunch in exchange for any insights she could share.

She had a lot to share. I didn't retain the specifics, but as the meal progressed, the beginning shape of the narrative took form in my mind. She got herself so excited that she offered to co-author the piece with me.

"Thanks Gina, but I need to do this one on my own." She acted cool, but color rose to her cheeks. I realized that she was hoping for more than a writing partner. I looked at her as a woman. She had straight brown hair; not a single curl or twist on her head. Her eyes were such a dark brown that they looked black. She had smooth skin, and a soft and generous figure. I liked what I saw, but it wasn't what I wanted.

I headed to my professor's office, and I thought at first that he was interested in helping me. But when he realized that I was looking for advice on writing a romance novel, he became still. He seemed to be struggling with what to do about a jock with romance writing ambitions. There was a lot of shuffling and, "That's not the sort of thing I write." "Maybe you should read some of the sort of books you're looking to write." "The best authors always say the top three things are to write, write, write!" When I couldn't take his discomfort any more, I offered to leave with the final tip, "Woody Allen always said to write what you know."

I'd bedded more than my share of girls in high school (I am pretty sure I could've fucked Gina,) but I didn't know much about romance. That was okay, though. Guidance for the romance was already arranged.

"Okay. Thanks Dr. Watts." It wasn't much, but it was enough to start. I went home, up the stairs and straight to my room. I didn't screw around. I sat down at my computer and I began to write.

It was hard to get started, but once the first few paragraphs were down, I began to feel the flow. I sat and pushed, and after an hour and a half, I had two pages written. I felt elated. I saved the file, and got busy with the usual distractions of my life: homework, computer games, dinner and my mother.

"I've started writing." I said with a smile over Mom's noodles in a mushroom cream sauce; a dish my father's mother had taught her.

"That's great, hon!" she said before easing a forkful between her lips.

"Yeah. It's good. I think I may be cut out to be a writer."

She chewed and nodded and beamed at me. She sipped her glass of red, and then said, "You are really chasing this down. Can I see what you've written?"

"Not yet. Give me a little more time."

She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing more. Even in silence, she was like a song at the table.

The next day, after my classes, I booted up my computer, and opened the file. I thought I'd read the two pages I already had to get the creative juices flowing.

It was two pages of the worst writing I'd ever seen. How had I thought this was good? It was riddled with grammar errors, and sentence fragments. It had all made sense to me when I'd composed them but would make no sense to an outsider reading it.

Ernest Hemingway from Dad's book of quotes growled in my mind, The first draft of anything is shit. I gritted my teeth. I wanted this too much to give up. She was in this house every day, and couldn't see me; how much I desired her. What we could be.

"Okay, Ernesto," I said to the bookshelf above the monitor. "That's two pages of shit. Time for page-of-shit number three." I kept writing.

Two hours later, I was approaching the end of page three when I heard my mother calling that she was home.

"Heeeey!" I called over my shoulder to my closed door, and went back to typing. A minute later there was a pecking at my door. A gorgeous blonde came in my room.

"Hey, sweetie, watcha up to?"

I minimized the document and rotated my chair to face the intruder, my mother. Her hair was pulled back, and I could see traces of sweat on her graceful neck. She wore a loose white blouse with lace decorations of the exact same color across the chest. A loose pair of tan slacks hinted at the shape of her lower body but refused to tell. I didn't want to just look, and I didn't dare to stare. "Hey," I said with a glued on smile. "I'm working on the book. Yesterday's pages weren't as great as I'd remembered them, and today's aren't flowing like I want."

She walked up to me, and put a hand on my shoulder. She meant to be reassuring, but it placed the arc of her hip less than a foot from my beating heart. The curve of her breast was level with my eyes and mouth. I tilted back to look up into the clear skies of her face. "How long have you been working at it?"

I swallowed, looked at my watch then back up into her personal space. "About two hours. And I've managed less than a single page."

She ran two fingers through my hair and offered, "D'you want to take a break? Ham and cheese sandwiches? A little lemonade?"

My mouth watered, but I wanted no food. "Thanks, Mom." I turned my face away from her, in the direction of the computer. "But I need to keep at this. I'm close to some real progress. I can feel it."

She stepped away from me with an even brighter smile. There was no more sympathy, only pleased surprise. "It's great how you are sinking your teeth into this. You're going to be a published writer in no time if you keep it up."

"Heh. Maybe. I don't know if this one will ever see the light of day, but I..." I reached for the mouse, and hovered over the tab of my hidden document. "I'm not going to let this slip past me. I feel like I've got to do this or I'll explode." I may explode anyway I thought.

She put her hands behind her back, and seemed to be standing on the balls of her feet. "I'm sure it'll be great, honey. I'll get out of here and let you work...unless you want me to stay and help?"

I turned back to the computer, and spoke to the screen. "No thanks. Just close the door behind you, okay?"

"Okay," It could have been the beauty agreeing in the doorway or the squeak of a mouse. In any event the door clicked, and I opened the file. I pressed on. I didn't feel anything while I wrote. Only a moment later there was another light knock at my door. I looked at the clock on my computer, and realized that the moment had been 45 minutes. I was near the end of page four.

Again without my permission, the door opened. She brought in a tray with a ham and cheese sandwich and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.

"No need to stop." she trilled in a sing-song voice. "I'll just leave this here on the side of your desk. You can eat whenever you're ready, and you don't have to stop if you don't want to." Her smile was broad and generous, but her eyes were on the screen.

I reached over, and turned the monitor off. "Thanks Mom. Next time you knock, could you wait until I say, 'come in'?"

She blinked hard when the screen went black, and gave me a pout. "Why did you do that? Are you writing something you don't want me to see?"

I took a deep breath before responding. "No. It's just not ready yet. I promise, I will show you some pages soon. I do want your help. Just give me a little more time."

"You promise you'll show me?"

"I promise. Without you there is no book."

***

Three days later I had 10 pages that I was willing to let my mother read. I had already corrected for errors and content twice. You could say it was the second draft of the first half of the first chapter. It didn't need to be perfect for Mom to read it (and it was NOT perfect by any stretch of the imagination,) but it needed to be good enough.

Mom grinned like a cartoon character and rubbed her hands together when I offered her the sheaf of papers. She took them to the bay windows attached to the kitchen. The view looked out over the swimming pool in our back yard. Spring was starting to boil into summer by then. She was wearing cream colored shorts and a red halter top with a big yellow sunflower in the middle of the chest. Her hair was up, allowing a clear view of her glowing neck, shoulders and trim bare arms. Profiled in the windows with her feet up, her legs looked long and lean. I could see the sex appeal there, but more than just that. I knew how tight her arms could squeeze; how warm she felt against my chest.

Watching her, I reminded myself to breathe. As she made her way through the introductory pages, her face began to redden. I had anticipated this. I braced myself for whatever response she might have.

After reading the last word on the tenth page, she placed the document with care on the sill beneath her bent knees. She knew I was watching her from the doorway that connects the living room and the kitchen. "I need a minute here Donovan." She swallowed hard. "I'm not sure how to respond to this, and I'd like a moment to organize my thoughts."

She had used the full version of my name. The phrase "organize my thoughts" was, in my mother's parlance, a sign of serious distress. It was usually reserved for failed final exams or drastic curfew violations.

"Sure," I said in my softest voice. "I'll wait in the living room."

***

I checked my watch (not for the first time since sitting down) when she came to the doorway I'd occupied before. Who knew five minutes could take so long?

Don't apologize for it I reminded myself. Deep breath. Stay calm no matter what.

She leaned her left shoulder against the inside of the doorway, her left bare leg bent at the knee. The smooth right leg locked to support her weight. My papers were in her left hand at her side, and she was pinching the bridge of her nose with the other.

"Okay," she said to herself before looking up at me. "The main character is Ken, right?"

"Yes." I kept my tone as even as I could. I imagined my face made of stone.

"And this neighbor, Jane..."

"Jan." The correction escaped my mouth before I could reconsider. Did I want to interrupt with a random detail? The name could be anything. I almost apologized for the interruption, but just clenched my jaw to let my mother continue.

"Fine. Whatever. Jan. She's the love interest?"

"Yes."

"And she's not the neighbor's daughter. She's the neighbor. A grown woman; owner of the house." Her face was stern, bordering on angry.

"Yes. When we talked some days ago, you used this phrase: Autumn/Spring relationship. That's not a problem for you, right? You said..."

"No, Don. That's not what concerns me. You said that you wanted it to be a romance that would seem impossible. A young guy seducing an older woman... his neighbor... can be a steep climb, but it's not a problem for me." I held silent this time. "Umm. This Jan, though." She gave me a hard look, and her cheeks started turning red. "About five foot six? Around 125 to 130 pounds? Blond hair? Blue eyes? Swimmer's build?"

"Too sexy sounding?" I ventured.

She cleared her throat. "No, Don. Not at all. The way you describe this woman...Is it my imagination or does it sound like... like she looks a lot like me?"

I put on a look of relief that was the opposite of how I felt. "Oh! That. Yeah. Of course she looks like you, Mom."

"You... You did it on purpose?"

"Sure! I wanted the character to look beautiful. You're beautiful! You know that. You are my ideal of how a woman should be. Heck, you told me once that your attraction to Dad may have been because he resembled your father. Ask anyone, they'll tell you that a loving parent forms the son or daughter's ideals of manhood and womanhood. You're awesome, Mom! Who else would I model her from? Skinny-Alise down the street? No way I could write her and make it believable. As soon as I had the idea of making her like you I knew it would be perfect!"

I delivered it with full-on sincerity. Every word was true after all. I didn't flinch. I could see surprise and a kind of transitioning in her face.

"Well, thank you sweetheart. I... I hadn't thought...It's kind of sweet when you put it that way. You really think I'm so beautiful? I mean the way you describe her..."

"I've been telling you since I was a little kid. You're the most beautiful lady in the world." I had said that as a little boy, and I heaped on the innocence as I reminded her. The praise of her beauty had dropped off over the last few years, right around the time I realized that my feelings bent beyond the pale.

"Okay. But..." Her expression turned serious again. "Ken, your hero... well... he resembles you. He sounds almost exactly like you, Don. What is this supposed to...?" her words died off, but the question hung there.

No denial.

"Yeah, well my English Lit professor, Dr. Watts, said to write what you know. That's part of why I knew to make Jan look like you. As for the main character, I know what it's like to be a 20-something guy. I know what yearning for a woman is like." Mom opened her mouth to respond, but I pressed on, "It's the woman and the seduction I know nothing about. That's where I will need your help."

She turned a few degrees away from me but kept her eyes fixed on my face. Her chin tilted up and her nostrils flared; just a tiny bit, but I saw it. It was like she smelled something in that room that most modern men couldn't detect. Was it the truth within the truth? Was it the promise the story held? Was it the danger?

Whatever it was, it passed. She looked at me with a smirk, and said, "You've had more girlfriends than your whole swim team combined. What do you know about 'yearning' as you put it Don Juan?"

"Just because I've dated a lot of girls doesn't mean that I've always been with the one I want. Besides, yearning for a woman doesn't have to mean you never get to be with her. It only means you haven't captured her heart yet. Help me write a book where Ken can seduce Jan. Help me make it at least kind of reasonable and believable. Not only will it make a great story, but maybe I'll learn how to enchant the woman of my dreams one day."

She laughed, and I had to look away so she wouldn't see how much her laugh affected me. "Okay, Don. You win. I'll help you. What mother could refuse a pitch like that?"

I smiled at her, looking happy and proud of my clever argument. But in my heart I was also smiling because I couldn't believe that I'd said it out loud. I'd just told her my plan in a nutshell: My mother would give me guidance on how to seduce my mother.

Chapter 4

She was true to her word. I produced an average of two pages every day, and she was always eager to read them. For several days she gave me style tips or pointed out sentences that didn't make sense to her. Most of the time I took her suggestions and applied them.

On matters of the greater structure, however, I would argue and debate. These were the most interesting conversations. I learned so much from my mother.

The discussion we had about the backstory, for example, really helped me become much clearer of what I wanted to say.

Mom knocked.

I said, "Come in."

The door opened, and Mom walked in waving two day-old pages in her hand. "I've finally figured out what was bugging me about their history, Don."

I spun my desk chair to face the beauty and her music. "You've got a problem with their backstory?"

"It seemed too easy or too hard, but I could never explain how or why."

"But you've got it now?"

"Yeah." She slapped her taut thigh with the pages. "She shouldn't know him since childhood. She's known him since he was a tiny boy. She saw him be an annoying teenager. It's sexier if they're strangers."

I linked my fingers, palm to palm, and pressed my lips against the knuckles. "Mmmm." Then I released my hands to say, "Sexy is definitely good. And cutting their history would make things easier. Getting-to-know-you chats could deliver a lot of information in big chunks." She smiled, and I wished that I could stop there, but...

She saw it on my face, and said, "But...?"

"But, well, then you've got lust instead of love. Don't get me wrong. I understand what you mean. Their longstanding familiarity is an obstacle, but I think it will serve the love in the long run of the story."

"Lust can be romantic," she pressed. "And lust can grow into love." She tilted her head, popped her eyebrows and made a sideways smile at me.

In any other woman I would have taken it as an invitation. Even knowing it wasn't, I felt a hard thump in my chest. I wanted to take her face in my hands and put my tongue in her mouth. I wondered if I could make it through this whole process. I loved her now. I wanted her now.

Without hope of flirtation, I let the truth bubble up from that drum in my chest. "Love turning into lust is even more romantic. Sure, this way is tougher, but harder earned love and lust can be more rewarding. More satisfying. More gratifying. I want this to be a love story, not just some young guy nailing his sexy older neighbor. You wouldn't tolerate some new stranger sniffing around just to seduce you, would you Mom?"