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“It’s not much of a spectator sport. How about we—?”
“I’d like to watch, if that’s okay with you.” He leaned forward with a quick grin. “That didn’t sound right, did it? Watch you write, I mean.”
Her mind hadn’t even peeked down that other possible path until he mentioned it. Damn him.
Was there any excuse that might convince him to put on his shirt?
We get a lot of mosquitos in the house. You may want to cover up.
He continued, “If I’m going to play a writer, I should know how it’s done. I won’t bother you. I promise.”
She opened her mouth to tell him, more firmly, that she could not write while being watched. Then she remembered her resolve not to snap at him.
“Okay,” she said. “But be warned, it isn’t very exciting.”
She twisted just enough that he was out of her line of sight. Then she resumed the scene, slowly at first, the motor cold again. After a few lines, the engine caught and—
“Why that word?”
Daphne jumped and twisted to find Chris leaning over her shoulder.
“I was noticing your word choices,” he said. “Like that one there. You used ‘ensnared’ instead of ‘caught.’”
“Uh-huh.”
He eased back. “I’ve often wondered that about authors. How do they decide when to use five-dollar words instead of five-cent ones? Is it to help readers build their vocabulary?”
Or to show off their own vocabulary?
He didn’t say that, but she heard it, and swallowed the snarky comeback.
Be nice.
Deep breath. “Sometimes a fancier word has a nuance the plain one doesn’t. Other times you’ve used the plain one twice already on that page, and you need a synonym to avoid echoes. In this case, it’s dialogue from a pompous ass. He’d use ‘ensnared.’”
“Makes sense.” Chris eased back. “Keep writing. I’ll just ask questions as you go.”
Daphne closed the laptop. “If you want to watch me work, how about I do this instead?” She walked to a drawer, opened it, and took out a sheaf of papers.
“Editing?” he asked. “I was actually pretty good at that in middle school. I loved commas. You can put them in wherever it looks good. Like art. Here, let me help—”
She hugged the papers to her chest and pulled a chair up to the kitchen island. “It’s not editing. It’s business work. You want to know more about being an author? This is one of the profession’s dirty little secrets.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s not all sitting around making up stories. You’re running a small business.”
She laid out the pages.
Chris picked up one. “You paid five grand for website design? I’ve got a buddy whose nephew does them for a case of beer.”
She plucked the invoice from his hand. “We can discuss marketing later. Right now, I need to enter these expenses into my online ledger.”
He stepped up behind her and peered at the screen. “You know you can hire people for that, right? They do it, like, professionally.”
“You mean bookkeepers?”
“That’s the word. You’re making enough money that you should be offloading all the tasks that don’t require your personal attention so you can focus on the things only you can do, like writing. An accountant who also does bookkeeping could not only take this part off your hands but help with tax-saving opportunities.”
He cleared his throat. “Or so I’ve heard. From my accountant. I don’t do my own. There’s so many numbers. All that math.”
“I don’t mind math,” Daphne said.
