UnConventional - novel-in-progress

[Ximena]

I don't necessarily think of it as a better/worse, just the type of person/character each scenario creates.

[old_dumb_grid]

Jul 12, 2012 12:23:11 GMT -5 Ximena said:

I don't necessarily think of it as a better/worse, just the type of person/character each scenario creates.

+1

As long as one finds a sense of self.

[Deleted]

Jul 12, 2012 12:08:48 GMT -5 Max said:

Jul 12, 2012 12:03:01 GMT -5 Ximena said:

It's ironic bc what you said is exactly the reason I prefer congenital - it's a very diff story/character, etc, if you're born w something vs being injured, and I'm drawn to that concept.

It's funny to see the different views of both sides when they talk about who's off worse. I've played rugby with a lot of teammates that were para's. I thought they had it worse because they had to make the transition, they know what they are missing. I on the other hand don't know any better, so I don't know what I'm missing out on. The way they see it I'm off worse. At least they have had experience without a disability, and I have never known what it is to walk without problems.

Both views sounds logical, but apparently better/worse is a very personal view

My Hubby was born with his disability but it didn't start to effect him until he was a teenager so kind of is in both positions, congential but he is aware of mobility before.

[Ximena]

Well, I just got the feedback on the 1.5 draft and some good insights - always interesting to see how someone with a fresh set of eyes will look at it!

The consensus seems to be that Santiago is a hottie LOL and we want to see more of him, but that's a very good thing since I'm already planning a sequel from his POV, lol. .

So I have some proofing to do this week for Ruth and then will get cracking on revising toward the second draft! I'm so excited about this .

[Ximena]

Thanks to some great advice, I've rewritten the opening of the novel, where we are first introduced to the two main characters. Thought I'd share it with you guys, esp since the board has been kinda quiet lately. Enjoy!

“All right, I’m on the plane. I’ll call you when I get there,” I say, squeezing on board, past the annoyed flight attendant.

“The company’s really expanding its overseas operations, and so I’ve put my name in. I probably won’t get an international position, but thought you should know,” Stephen says over the line.

“I’m sure you’ll get it. I gotta go,” I mutter, distracted, quickly hanging up and finding my seat. Despite being late to board, the stars have somehow aligned to give me a first-class upgrade, so at least I don’t have far to go, avoiding the irritated looks of my fellow passengers.

My seat is 1-A, the aisle, so I sink down into it, relieved to be off my feet. I’m late to board because I misjudged the time and expected to be flying out of terminal C. Of course, in typical IAH fashion, after suffering through the agonizing long security line in terminal C, I exited the TSA torture to discover my gate was in terminal E instead. This meant a long hike–which turned into a run as I realized not only was flight 1037, nonstop from Houston to Los Angeles flying out of E, but it was a gate all the way at the end of the airport–E21. So by the time I curl up in my lush first-class seat, I’m exhausted, sweaty, and annoyed that it’s probably too close to take-off to get my pre-flight drink.

“What’s a seven-letter word for ‘adulterer’? Begins with a ‘C’?”

I glance over and, for the first time, notice the man seated next to me in the window seat. He’s got his long legs stretched out in front of him, the tray table opened and the airline magazine flipped to the crossword, a pen poised in one hand. He holds the pen between two fingers, their pads thick and calloused, tapping it against his thumb lightly, waiting for me to answer.

Without having to think, I reply, “‘Cuckold.’”

He quickly writes the answer into the puzzle, his fingers making firm, deliberate strokes, his letters all caps and neat. I like his handwriting. Then he turns and smiles at me, a big broad grin revealing teeth that are perfect enough to be the result of years of pain and orthodontic work, yet one slightly crooked incisor on the bottom left suggests they’re naturally straight.

“Thanks,” he says, still smiling. “I should have known that.” His hair is slightly wavy, thick; a deep, dark brown with a suggestion of red, conservatively cut but not so short you can’t see its natural body and texture. It’s the kind of hair that demands a woman pull her fingers through.

“I didn’t think anyone actually did those things,” I say, pointing to the magazine.

His cheek raises in a half smile as he slips the pen in the pocket of his button-up and folds the tray table back into the arm rest. “Well, now that I have such lovely company, I don’t need to.” I notice he leans forward at the waist without really moving or bending his legs to slip the magazine back in the pouch in front of him.

I find my eyes strangely drawn to his legs and feet; he’s wearing black, loose-fitting slacks and black leather dress shoes, although they’ve obviously been picked more for comfort than formality.

“I always told myself I wouldn’t be one of those people who’s the last one on the plane and holds everyone up. I’m sorry,” I say, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“Let me guess,” he says, and his eyes sparkle, his skin wrinkling just a tiny bit in each corner. “You went through terminal C.”

“That obvious, huh?” I say, leaning back in the seat.

He points one of his long fingers at me. “There’s actually this little hidden security checkpoint for terminal E that nearly no one knows about. It’s never crowded, especially since it’s only open in the mornings.”

“You tell me this now,” I say with a relaxed smile, looking at him.

With an effortless shrug, he returns the grin, and I notice his strong chin, his smoothly shaved, olive-tinged skin that suggests it’ll turn the perfect shade of brown if he spends enough time in the sun. He extends his hand. “Santiago Duran.”

It takes a moment for my muscles to register that my hand should slip into his, and even after it does, grasping it and completing the handshake is a struggle. My heart is fluttering–yes, fluttering–who thought hearts actually do those things? My throat is suddenly dry.

“Santiago? Isn’t that a city?”

He laughs, a good-natured, genuine laugh, a laugh almost as intoxicating as the rest of him, deep, but not too deep. “My parents are Cuban, from Oriente, so I guess they were homesick. You can call me Diego if you want.”

“Diego,” I say, still not able to take my hand from his. “Nadine Monroe. But please, call me Di. I can’t stand Nadine.”

He laughs again, and I realize I could spend a lifetime listening to that sound. “So we both have parents who chose terrible names for their children.”

I’m finally able to recover my hand, although now I kind of know where the hyperbolic expression “I’ll never wash it again” comes from. “Santiago isn’t a terrible name. I kind of like it.”

He smiles and leans his head back, looking directly at me, as if I’m the only other woman on the planet. “Then you can call me Santiago. You can call me whatever you like.”

I flush slightly. The flight attendant is going over the safety procedure, and I know it’s kind of rude not to pay attention, but I can’t tear my eyes off Santiago’s, which are this incredible milk-chocolate, a medium brown that’s a combination of color, as if his irises were made from a range of colored pencils. I keep expecting to discover some new facet to them. I realize I am looking at him far too carefully considering I’m married. Is it cheating to just admire and flirt with a hot guy on a plane you’ll probably never ever see again?

He’s smiling at me, too, studying my eyes, occasionally glancing up at the flight attendant and smiling at her. I’m not sure what he expects to see in my irises; they’re green, but on the hazel side, so most of the time I think they look like dirty money, complete with dark-specks of dirt.

“So what are you heading to LA for, Santiago?” I ask, keeping my voice low so I’m not too rude to the flight attendant, testing out his full name to see if I like it. It feels exotic and I like the way it rolls off my tongue as I push the limits of my Spanish pronunciation.

His smile broadens a bit. “A conference. You’ve probably never heard of it. ECAC. Editor and Copyeditors Association Conference. It’s no coincidence the acronym sounds like a noise you’d make after tasting something unpleasant.”

“Oh my God,” I say, unable to resist slapping my hand over my face, a slight blush coloring my cheeks as I realize how silly I’m behaving. I cast a glance back at the flight attendant, who’s finished her presentation and is glaring at me slightly. After being so late and then talking through her demonstration, I don’t think I’m exactly her favorite person right now. “Me too,” I add in explanation, relieved that the flight attendant has disappeared to check all the overhead bins and tray tables and so forth. “Where do you work?”

After his hot Bush Intercontinental Airport tip, I’m pretty confident (and secretly hope) this isn’t a connecting flight for him, that he lives somewhere in the vast expanse that is the Houston metro area. Even if he’s a fantasy, the idea of coming back home and knowing Santiago “el hunko” is out there is extremely appealing.

“You know the Houston magazine? I write some of the copy, but mostly I’m the one making sure all the ‘I’s’ are dotted and the ‘T’s’ crossed.”

I lean back a bit, stretching my legs and deciding to pull them up into the seat since they don’t quite touch the ground. I’ve always wished I were tall and large-chested, and in most cases, airplanes are one arena where I’m grateful for my 5'1", 120-pound frame. I wonder if he got bumped to first like me. Unless he’s lucky and the magazine actually pays his convention travel expenses.

“What about you?” His voice breaks me from my reverie.

“Oh, um . . .” I stutter, caught off guard.

I’m further interrupted by the flight attendant, who appears beside us, and nearly ignoring me, leans in toward Santiago. “We’re taking off in a few minutes. You OK? Need anything?”

He smiles at her, shakes his head just slightly. “I’m perfect, thank you.”

I can’t help noticing the way she smiles at him. They’re totally flirting with each other. I feel myself sink a little. That warm feeling of being singled-out is fading a bit. Santiago probably flirts with everyone. Not that I blame him; he’s totally delicious and far, far off menu for me, even if I weren’t married.

“I went ahead and stashed them in the front closet. I’ll get them out for you once we’ve landed and everyone’s disembarked,” she says.

He nods, smiling still, although it seems a little . . . I don’t know, tenser?, his lips pressed together. And what is she talking about, anyway? I’m confused, but I don’t have too long to think about it, because Santiago brings me back once again.

“You were saying?”

The flight attendant has left us and the pilot has just finished announcing they should prepare for departure.

“Oh. Yes. I work for an editing consulting company. Basically it’s like freelance, only more organized.” I laugh a bit, nervous. “Any time anyone in the area needs some editing or proofreading or copywriting and they don’t have an in-house team, they call us.”

“Sounds exciting,” he says, and I’m genuinely surprised he’s not feigning his interest.

I tap my hand on my ankle and laugh. “Not really. My boss is a bit of a workaholic and that kind of trickles down,” I add with a grunt.

Something changes in his face; it’s fleeting–just a fraction of a second before he replaces his smile and warm look–but I still catch it. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Two lowly editors, sitting together in first class,” I say, still gripping my ankle, partially to give me something to do with my hands as the plane begins to rumble down the runway. “I keep asking myself what I’m doing,” I say, then feel heat in my cheeks as I realize I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

He laughs; it’s not his full laugh, but it’s rich and deep and lovely anyway. He winks at me subtly. “I know what I’m doing,” he says.

I arch an eyebrow, my heart thumping.

His eyes twinkle, and he leans in toward me a bit when he answers. “Sitting next to the most attractive woman on flight 1037.”

#

So my plans to sleep through the four-hour flight are thwarted by the incredibly handsome guy sitting next to me. Of course, I don’t mind. Not only is he good to look at, he makes great conversation, too. I honestly don’t even remember all we talked about; it’s a blur, and over too soon. Even though the flight attendant seems to be in love with Santiago, checking on him far too often even for first-class, his eyes rarely drift from mine during the entire conversation. He may be a flirt, but for this flight at least, the majority of his attention is focused on me, as hard as it is to believe.

Before I know it, our plane is taxiing, and I want nothing more than to spend a few more minutes with him.

“Where are you staying?” he asks as I fumble to turn on my phone.

“Um, the hotel that’s hosting the conference.”

He laughs. “Me too.”

I’ve been focused on my phone, head bent, but when I hear those words, my head snaps up reflexively, my heart beating a little faster, butterflies floating around in my stomach. “Oh, that’s great,” I say, trying to sound disaffected but not sure I pull it off.
“You know, we could catch a cab together . . .”

My phone buzzes in my hand, cutting him off. I blush slightly. “It’s my boss. I have to take this. Sorry.” I put the phone to my ear. “Yeah, we just landed. What? You told me that was tomorrow! OK. OK, I’ll get there as soon as I can. OK. Yeah. Bye.” I let out a loud sigh.

“Everything OK?”

I look over at him, his eyes surprisingly genuinely concerned for a woman he’s only known a few hours. “Yeah. I was supposed to have a meeting tomorrow afternoon but somehow it got moved to this afternoon, which means I’ve got to rush off the plane, grab my bag, and make the land-speed record from LAX to the hotel.”

He laughs, but it’s a softer, more muted laugh than his others. A disappointed laugh, perhaps. “Well, maybe I can catch you later, then? I like to be one of the last off the plane.”

My eyebrows furrow and I cock my head slightly, confused. I remember what the flight attendant mentioned to him at the start of the trip and wonder if that has anything to do with it. “I thought one of the perks of first class was getting on first and getting off first.”

Santiago shrugs, smiles that disarming smile of his. I notice he rubs his hands on his pants anxiously. There’s no way I could be making this confident, self-assured guy nervous . . . is there? “Eh, I figure I should get my money’s worth.”

The plane pulls into the gate and the passengers start standing around us, reaching for items in the overhead bins, shouldering bags.

He offers a hand to help me stand, and his touch sends an unexpected shiver through my body. I love the way my hand feels against his rough palm, a palm far too layered in years of callouses to belong to someone who’s purely an office worker, I think.

When he grins at me, his eyes smile along with his mouth. “I’ll see you soon, Di,” he says.

“I hope so,” I find myself saying, the words a whisper off my lips.

[janewheeler]

Braces? Crutches? Please say braces and crutches

[Ximena]

Jul 15, 2012 18:50:12 GMT -5 janewheeler said:

Braces? Crutches? Please say braces and crutches

Should I be mean and leave you in suspense and say you'll see when the book comes out, lol???

;D

[janewheeler]

It's probably going to be a while, isn't it

[Max]

Sounds promising Ximena

[ruthmadison]

Jul 15, 2012 19:42:58 GMT -5 janewheeler said:

It's probably going to be a while, isn't it

I'm afraid so!

We'll get it out as quick as possible, but books take a while to get all edited, formatted, and prepared!

[janewheeler]

You mean... the Interwebs don't just deposit it on your doorstep the day after you find out it exists?

[ruthmadison]

Jul 16, 2012 13:08:12 GMT -5 janewheeler said:

You mean... the Interwebs don't just deposit it on your doorstep the day after you find out it exists?

If only! lol. But we want to get you the very best version of the story that it can be and that takes a little bit of time

[Ximena]

Jul 17, 2012 17:54:58 GMT -5 ruthmadison said:

Jul 16, 2012 13:08:12 GMT -5 janewheeler said:

You mean... the Interwebs don't just deposit it on your doorstep the day after you find out it exists?

If only! lol. But we want to get you the very best version of the story that it can be and that takes a little bit of time

How very true, lol...

[Deleted]

Jul 16, 2012 13:08:12 GMT -5 janewheeler said:

You mean... the Interwebs don't just deposit it on your doorstep the day after you find out it exists?

I now have an imagine of little internet goblins zooming around with bags full of manuscripts. There has to be a story in there somewhere

[ruthmadison]

Definitely! That's such an adorable image.