Same Thang . . . (from Life IS a Fairytale)


Cerise finally got her adrenaline level down and dropped her shoulders into a more relaxed position against the leather seat.  Total relief.  The white noise of the cabin filled the air with just some faint muttering from other passengers on the plane.

All she could think about was herself sitting before Jean Paul Chaviot as he reveled and praised her manuscript, she hoped.

“By the way, I’m Eddie.”  The guy stuck his hand out to her.


“Good thing we got there early, huh.  I feel bad for people who might arrive for that flight later.”

She nodded in agreement.

Yeah, Jean Paul Chaviot’s blessing would set her up to be accepted by any one of her dream literary agents.    How awful it would have been to miss the meeting with him.  Things just do have a way of working out.    The other wonderful thing was she would have four whole days to spend writing in peace at the resort by herself until the other writers arrive for the retreat days later.

The resort itself was on the border of the Uncompahgre National Forest.  Fifty-one miles from the Montrose airport.  It has cottages situated  in a deep valley amidst  the scenic wilderness surrounded by tall mountains.  The brochure showed a writer’s haven.  The director had stated the place would be open just for her.  A saloon would be within walking distance that served delectable organic foods, plus a general store always available since it was open to the public.  The whole area except the store was gated and manned by security.

What was wrong with her?  Here she had a cute guy sitting next to her, who just introduced himself, and she’s daydreaming about the resort.

Okay.  Nerves.  Nerves.  Ohhh… so not good at this!

“So, are you from Montrose?” some part of her let out.

He opened his eyes and looked at her a bit sleepy eyed.    He squinted  and shook his head.  “No, never been there before.”

“Vacation?” she asked.

“Well, I’m going to a conference.”  He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight.

“Oh, that’s nice.  Job related?”

“You can say that.  It’s a writer’s conference.  Sort of a writer’s retreat.”

Cerise froze.  Not possible.  The retreat didn’t start until next week.  She quivered her head and swallowed, “Nice.  So am I.”

“Wow, at  Uncompaghre, right?”

“That’s it!”

“Whoa, how crazy is that?”  he leaned forward again and adjusted his shorts.

She got a little nervous.  “Why are you going so early?”

He scratched the stubble on his jaw.  “My session with Jean Paul Chaviot had to be moved up.  He has to return to France sooner than he planned, or something.”

When do things like this ever happen?  Only in fairy tales.

They conversed more, he asked about her manuscript.  He told her about his.  They shared writing woes and those devastating, foolish rejection letters from agents.  His main job was as an equipment inspector at a tobacco plant of all places.  He claimed he didn’t smoke, and despised tobacco.   He had her laughing about how he trained his understudy to do his work for the next three days and how the head of the company who lived in another part of Kentucky wasn’t even aware that he was on this trip.

The conversation was mostly cordial.  They kept talking about this and that as they partook in the airline meal – a dish of smoked salmon and spinach covered with slices of boiled egg.  Angel food cake was for dessert, and red wine was to prime the stomach.  The first class stewardess was the nicest any one could ask for.

They snickered  about their twist of fate from paupership to traveling in luxury.   He had her take a picture of him opening his mouth for a bite of the salmon.

Once their stomachs were full, they abandoned conversation for a bit.  Then she asked about whether he outlined and where he did his research for his novel.  She offered her strategy of using the internet social pages.

“Nah, nothing’s like doing a real interview.”

He didn’t want to elaborate, and even tried to change the subject, but she coaxed him.  When he tried to breeze over it, she nudged him for details.  Then she was sorry she did that.  Now she was getting to know him a little bit more.  He revealed how he interviewed his dates to research scenes for his book, particularly the romantic and sex scenes.   He boasted on how he noticed certain trends that he would have not anticipated had he not asked.

Cerise sat listening to him, not knowing how to comment.  He was all guy, in all aspects, that was for sure.  A  man enjoying the fruits that his good looks and youthfulness undoubtedly brought him.  Now the perfect guy has become the guy who is toxic to your heart, with the potential to create an ache that no medicine can fix.  The committing type he absolutely is not.  Untameable, probably not for the next ten years.

He was nice, though.  Enough to lure her into at least a short-term relationship, not usually her how she preferred it.  She could think of a few of her girlfriends who wouldn’t hesitate.     Heck, every guy you meet can’t become your husband~!

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“What?”  she moved back from her thoughts to his.  He was jotting something down on a napkin.

“You want to take my survey?”

She blushed.  She knew better than to do that.  She shook her head.  He chuckled and put his napkin away.

Like a gentleman, he eased into another subject.  They talked the rest of the flight.  Somehow she  knew she was going to enjoy this vacation regardless of what happened.


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Writing Goals

My First Completed EbookNovember 11th, 2013
I will put my first Ebook on Amazon

The Background: Swamp Scene in Avoyelles Parish

The scene is a swamp in Louisiana, my home state. It is also the setting of my beloved story that I will finish one day, even if I have to take it up to Heaven in a folder with a pen. God would say, "you're still carrying around that thing?" I would nod my head and give him a humble blink, my pen and paper in hand. He would then ask, "so how are you going to get it to your audience when you're done?" I would gulp and give him another humble blink. Then I'd look down at my work and a grin would grow on my face . . . (you won't get it until after you read my book, once I do finish it. . .)
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