2 May 25

A Love Letter or a Letter Bomb? The Training Continues

I sit at my desk, hoping to start writing Cassidy and Alvin’s story. I’m not sure what’s wrong. I can’t seem to write the introduction. I start a sentence, then I can’t find the right words, and the sentence just hangs there, unfinished. It’s not a good way to write a book.

I sent Cassidy off the other day, after I studied her mannerisms, traits, and preferences. I know what she eats (hamburgers, doughnuts, and potato chips), and I know what she prefers to wear—jeans and T-shirts with weird sayings about literature. Yeah.

I should be able to write. The house is nearly empty. Martin is still in training to be a romance hero. Blake is doing his best, but some habits die hard.

“No, Martin. That’s not exactly how a romance hero would handle this situation.” Speak of the devil. That’s Blake.

“Well, why not?” Martin whines. “That’s what Jack would have had me do.” Jack is Jack Sorbet, the internationally known author of thriller novels. Jack created Martin, but the story he had planned for him didn’t work out. And Moose brought him home one day.

I push my chair back and rise. I do believe the training has hit a snag.

When I get into the living room, Blake and Martin are sitting at opposite ends of the room, staring at each other.

“What’s going on?” An unopened letter sits on the coffee table.

“Blake asked me what I’d do with this letter if it came in the mail.” He points at the table.

“To be fair, Terry,” Blake shakes his head, his hair swaying, “I’m trying to impress on the man the need to be prepared for a romantic moment in the most unexpected places.”

That’s sweet. Blake is learning. Alex, his girlfriend, is probably behind this question. I heard them talking yesterday.

The envelope is pink, and it may have a bit too much of a lavender scent to it. But, we’re in the training mode, so it’s best to err on the side of more.

“Martin, what would you do if this came in your mail?” The odds really are slim, given the near instantaneous communications these days, that any woman would mail a physical letter. But you never know. Maybe I’ll decide Martin belongs in a time-travel story.

“I already told Blake what I would do with it, and he told me I was wrong. I think he said I overreacted.” Martin crosses his arms, and glares at the Brit.

“Tell me what you told him.” It may be Blake has higher expectations than I do. The man is a perfectionist.

Martin sighs impatiently. “Look at it. It’s an odd envelope. Who sends this type of envelope? And it reeks of a strange odor. I’d immediately grab my latex gloves out of my attaché case, grab a zip lock plastic bag, and gingerly—and I mean gingerly–place the thing in the bag. Then I’d hightail it to the nearest crime center and have them analyze it.”

Wow. But Martin isn’t quite done.

“How do I know what’s in there? Anthrax? It’s possible. And more importantly, how do I know it’s not going to explode?”

I retrieve the letter.

“Don’t touch it!” Martin screams. “Let me get my—”

“Martin, there’s no Anthrax in this letter, and it’s not a bomb.” I sit on the couch. A-a-a-choo!

“You did put a bit much lavender on it,” I tell Blake.

“Sorry. Alex was giving me directions in the American measurement system. And I tried to convert the perfume to metric. I may have calculated wrong.”

Ya think?

“This envelope is obviously,” I look Martin in the eyes, “from your girlfriend. Or a woman who very much wants to be your girlfriend. This is a romantic act.”

“Oh. Really? With that stink emanating from it, it feels a lot like a hostile act.”

“I know old habits die hard, as they say.” I’m a writer, you’d think I could come up with a better line. But pressure, and all. “But you’ll have to learn to take a step back and think a moment before you react.”

“Thinking gets an agent killed. You’ve got to react if you want to live.”

“But you’re a retired agent. A spy that no longer spies.” I’m trying to be patient. I really am.

He narrows his eyes, as if he’s thinking about it. I know he had a hard time accepting his retirement. But when I mentioned the King of England gave him an estate with horses as a reward for saving a royal life, well, Martin seemed okay with it.

“That’s right.” He throws his hand up. “Of course, I’m sorry. My instincts took over, and then, well, I’m stubborn.” He stands, and take several steps toward Blake. “Sorry. You were right.” He extends his hand.

Blake stands, and takes the hand. “No worries, mate.” They shake. Perhaps a bit too long than is socially acceptable, but I’ll take it.

The front door opens, and Moose rushes in. “Terry, I’ve got this great idea for another story. You know your lion shifter story?”

“Moose, I don’t need another story idea.” Why are there spiral notebooks hanging from his antlers?

I shake my head to get my thinking straight. “I’m trying to write one story, and I have another waiting to be written.” I nod toward Martin. He really needs a story. And I really need to get him out of my house.

“But hear me out. You can write a sequel. Your shifter book is called Heartquake.”

I nod. He’s going to keep talking regardless.

“This one can be called Heartquest, get it.”

“I get it, but I still don’t have the time.”

“And instead of a lion shifter, the main character shifts into a bird.” He raises his moose eyebrows, the spiral notebooks sway.

“Ooh. I like it,” Blake says.

“Shifters?” Martin asks. “Sounds woo-woo to me.”

Moose laughs. “That’s the point.”

Then he turns his attention back to me. “But not any bird. What about a hyacinth macaw? And what about his best friend, also a shifter, who got a curse put on him in Central America, and now he can’t shift out of his bird form? What about that?” The spiral notebooks are shaking even faster.

“Wow. That does have potential.” What am I saying?

“I have so much to do. Alvin’s waiting, Martin’s waiting.”

Martin raises his hand. “I’ll wait. It’s fine. I want to see how this story works.”

“Let’s go into your office.” Moose smiles. “I’ve got some words for you to put down on paper.” His hoof reaches for a notebook.

“But what about Alvin? What about Cassidy?”

“They’ll wait. It’ll be fine.”

I shrug, and follow Moose into the den.

I turn back to my two characters. “See you soon. Toodles.”

25 Apr 25

Moose returns…covered in mud!

“Terry, I’m home.”

It’s Moose. He’s been gone all week.

“I’m in the office.” I’m trying to write, but honestly Moose has been out of town. I’ve discovered the hard way that we have no telepathic connection. I tried, trust me. The first day I sat crossed-legged on my living room couch, closed my eyes, and listened for Moose’s creative insight. There was none. Not a word from him.

The second day, I took a walk in the woods nearby. I thought maybe since he’s a moose and the woods are his home, I could connect with him. Still nothing.

The third day, I sat at my computer, summoned my creative spirit…and picked up the phone. I called Moose. Of course, he’d have a few minutes to help his writer out. No answer. The Moose ignored my call. At this point, I was thinking maybe I should get a cat as a muse.

So, I’m relieved he’s home.

He steps into the office…and he’s covered from antler to hoof in mud.

“What the hell? Why didn’t you jump in a lake or something before you come tracking mud into my house?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Moose, you’re home, finally.” Martin steps into the office. “We’ve missed…Whoa! What’s going on with that shiny gold medal on your antler?”

Martin asks about the medal and not the mud? Wait…there is a shiny gold medal on his antler.

“Yeah, what’s that for?” I ask.

“For traveling the longest distance to participate in the Swedish moose migration.” He puffs out his chest.

Yeah, Moose watching his cousins on television last week lasted all of forty-five minutes. He called and booked an airplane ticket to Sweden. Thirteen hours later he called to say he made it safely. Of course, he woke me up in the middle of the night to do it. But I was happy he was safe and with his cousins.

“Congratulations.” I’m proud of my muse.

“How was the migration?” That’s Blake. He just stepped in with two cups of coffee. How sweet. I extend my hand to take one.

“Here Moose. You probably could use it. You’ve been roughing it all week.”

My cheeks grow hot. I quickly put my hand on my lap.

“Thank you. I haven’t had any caffeine all week. I didn’t realize they didn’t have Keurigs set up along the route. I made sure to put that in the suggestion box at the end of the route. Hopefully next year.” Moose brings the cup to his proboscis. Yeah, that’s the technical term for his nose. I’m not using it just to look smart. (But, did I look smart?)

He takes a long sip.

“Excuse me, y’all. What’s happening here?” Cassidy timidly stands at the door. I need her here a bit longer while I write down more of her traits and mannerisms. I sent Alvin back to the Physics Café, along with Ted and Simon. They’ll wait there while the story is taking form. Which doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon.

“Moose is back,” Martin says.

“It looks like migration is a dirty business.” She tilts her head. So cute. I’ve got to make sure to put that in the story.

“And he got a gold medal for the moose to travel the longest distance for the migration.” Martin seems prouder of the honor than Moose.

“Basically, Moose was the migrator who migrated the farthest for the migration?” she asks.

“Well done.” Blake tells her. “Very clever.”

And it is. She’s going to the perfect match for Alvin.

Moose hands the cup back to Blake. “Thanks, mate,” he says, trying hard to put a British accent to his words. “But I’ve got to go.”

“Go? You’ve just got here. We have ideas to create. Words to write,” I tell him.

“Can’t today.” He turns to leave. Cassidy steps aside to let him through.

“Where are you going?” He’s still covered in mud. I mean, where could he possibly be going, except the closest lake?

“To WNEO.” That’s the local television channel. “They want to interview me about my experience.”

“Don’t you think you should clean up?” You’d think he’d want to make a good impression.

“No, they want to see the effects of the migration on me. They want to see the mud and the dirt. The news producer said he wanted the ‘grittier side’ of the event.”

I nod, because words escape me at the moment.

“We’ll turn on the channel, mate.” Blake says.

“Of course,” Martin agrees, “we’ll be sure to watch you.”

Cassidy sighs. She looks sad. Is she missing Alvin?

“What’s wrong?”

“May I watch too?”

I laugh. “Of course, you guys watch.”

“Moose, you’ll come back home after, right? Because we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” Like the entire week you’ve been gone.

“Moose, you’ll be back, won’t you?”

He stops, and pivots. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll probably be signing autographs all day. There’s be a live studio audience…“Toodles, all.”

18 Apr 25

Alvin, Cassidy, and the Swedish Moose Migration.

“Well, Alvin’s in the kitchen. And he’s going to end up in here. Soon.”

Cassidy is still sitting on the couch. I’m sitting on a chair near her. Her unexpected early arrival shook me for a moment. But what the heck? Maybe it’s a good thing for the romantic heroine and hero meet before the story.

Honestly, I’m not exactly sure how this whisking characters off to their worlds work. It may be that they don’t remember a thing once they’re in the story. Perhaps they’ll only remember all this when they return at the end of their story. I’m hoping that’s the case.

Anyway, I can’t put this off my longer.

“Should I get him?” Moose asks. Somewhere during our talk with Cassidy, he’s taken off the Christmas ornaments and replaced them with sun catchers. Two prisms. Every time he moves, the light casts veritable rainbows across the living room.

“You probably should.” I nod to Moose. Those prisms are distracting. I almost ask him to take them off. After all, this is a special moment for Cassidy and Alvin. But, I can’t. Because that’s the core of who Moose his. It’s his free spirit that feeds me new ideas. And I’ve finally learned that to be most effective, Moose has to do Moose.

He strides into the kitchen.

“Alvin, Terry wants to see you in the living room.”

“I don’t like the way you said that. Am I in trouble?”

If he only knew. And he will soon enough.

“No, not at all. There’s, well, someone who wants to meet you.”

“Here, take this towel,” Alvin tells someone. “Who would possibly want to meet me?”

After my persistent insistence that he would not meet his romantic heroine prior to his story, I’m sure he has no idea what’s going on. I’m hoping he’ll be surprised. And I’m hoping they like each other.

He walks through the doorway.

“I’d like you to meet someone.”

Alvin nods.

“This is Cassidy Oglethorpe, your romantic heroine.”

“Hello,” she says in a soft southern whisper. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Alvin runs a hand through his short, brown hair. “Uhm, hi. I’m Alvin. Alvin Quigley.”

She giggles. “I know. And you like physics.”

“Uhm, yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Alvin, why don’t you sit here?” I rise from my chair. “I’ll give you two some time alone to talk. See if you’re a fit for each other.”

Alvin’s face is red. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

“Yeah, thanks. I’d like that…if that’s okay with you.” He nods toward Cassidy. She nods in return. I’m not sure how much talking they’ll be doing. It feels more like they’ll sit with each other and just, well, nod?

“I’m off to the kitchen. Would either of you like something to drink?”

“No.” They say at the same time.

“Okay. I’m out of here, then.”

I’m blocked from entering the kitchen. Simon, Ted, and Martin are watching them.

“In. The. Kitchen. Now.”

They grumble, but they move out of the doorway.

“That’s Cassidy?” Simon asks.

“Yes, she arrived a bit early.” I still haven’t figured out where she’ll be sleeping. Probably in my bed. And I have no idea where I’ll be sleeping. The bathtub? No, that’s where Moose sleeps.

“She’s cute.” Ted says. “She’s really cute. Alvin’s so lucky.”

“I intend for each of you to get a girlfriend. But after Alvin, Moose and I have to develop a love interest for Martin next. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait just a bit longer.”

Ted and Simon give other a glance, then nod. “I think we’re okay with that.”

“Thanks for being understanding.”

“Maybe Cassidy has a sister?” Ted asks.

“Or two?” Simon says.

“I don’t know. I’ll see.”

“Holy Moly!” Moose yells.

“That excited about Cassidy’s sisters?” Martin asks.

“No, it’s started. It’s already started. We need to get into the living room. Now!”

He heads for the door. I stand in front of him.

“What’s started?” By the look on my characters’ faces, they don’t know what he’s talking about either.

“It’s the yearly Swedish Moose Migration. And I have to watch it. We have to watch it. You’ll love it. I promise.”

“You’re lying. There’s no such—”

“Ah, but love, there is.” That British accent. Blake’s sitting at table, a leg crossed over his knee, sipping a cup of coffee. My coffee.

“And you know this how?” I put my hands on my hips.

“I’ve read about it.” Why, of course, he has. Is there anything the man hasn’t read?

“Every year in Sweden, roughly 300,000 moose migrate up north to graze.” He sips his coffee.

I turn to Moose. “Are you planning to go to Sweden to watch it?” By the time he gets there, the migration probably would be over.

“It’s broadcast live,” he and Blake say together. Moose shakes his head. Rainbows flood the kitchen.

“It’s on SVT,” Blake says, “it’s a cultural thing in Sweden. People have their televisions on twenty-four/seven.”

“That’s great. That’s Sweden. I’m sure we can’t—”

Moose timidly raises a paw. “I upgraded the cable package last week.”

“You what?”

“Well, I checked and we couldn’t get the Swedish state television station. And I really wanted to see it.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Is that Ted mocking me? It sure sounds like it.

“Can’t you see why?” He splays his hands toward Moose. “It’s his people migrating. Well, moose anyway.”

I sigh. Loudly. Now why didn’t I think of that?

“Some of my cousins wrote me last month to remind me to watch. They’re pretty excited about it.” He lower lip juts out. How does he do that?

“So, if you’ll excuse me.”

Before I have a chance to argue, he’s in the living room. I follow.

“Alvin, would you mind sitting here? We need to make room for Ted, Simon, and the others in here.” He points to the empty spot next to Cassidy on the couch. He turns. He knows I’m watching him. He winks. The rainbows from the prisms spill across the room.

Alvin glances at me. I nod. He sits next to her. Very close.

“Great. Great. I’m turning the migration on now.” He picks up the remote and clicks it on. Then programs it to the Swedish station. There’s a view of a river.

“I don’t see any moose.” I sigh. Again. What has my life come to?

“Not yet. I’m making some popcorn—”

“No, sit Moose,” Martin says. “I’ll make it. I don’t want you to miss your relatives.”

What in—?

“I’ll make a cheese platter,” Blake says.

There’s no use fighting this. “I’ll make some more coffee.”

I turn to Alvin and Cassidy. He has an arm around her shoulder. And they’re whispering to each other. Who would have thought that Moose’s insistence on watching his cousins would bring those two together?

I’m all in. Bring on the moose migration.

11 April 25

The Awkward Meet—Without the Cute

“What am I going to do?” I rub the back of my neck. Moose is standing next to me, apparently speechless. Where did he get those Christmas ornaments hanging from his antlers? I mean, he went from the kitchen to the living room to answer the door.

“Is this a bad time?” Cassidy is still in the doorway. She’s trying hard, I think, not to look at Moose.

We had just finished breakfast when she knocked at the door. She’s Alvin’s romance heroine. The woman he will fall in love with and live happily ever after with. (Fingers crossed.)

The woman I said he wouldn’t meet until the story started. Obviously, I didn’t expect her today. Or even this week for that matter.

“You weren’t expecting me?” Can she read my mind? Probably not. I’m sure my face gives me away.

“Not quite this early.” I turn to Moose. “Where are we going to put her?”

“Upstairs in the attic?” He shrugs.

“That would be an acceptable answer, but this house doesn’t have an attic.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

“I don’t mean to be a burden.” Her southern accent is sweet. I immediately feel badly about the way I greeted her. “But I was sent here without any alternative address.”

“I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? I am very happy to see you. Please come in.” She picks up her suitcase.  

“No, let me get that,” Moose says.

“Why thank you. And you are…?

“I’m Moose. I’m Terry’s muse. We worked together to create you.” Moose seems strangely fixated on the woman. I can’t say I blame him. She’s no taller than five two. Her red curly hair fits her perfectly. She has the perfect smile, with dimples. And those freckles? I couldn’t have written them in any better. (Oops, sorry.) She’s dressed in a pink T-shirt and blue jeans. I hope Alvin finds her attractive.

“Nice to meet you finally. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Here sit on the couch. Moose, just leave her suitcase here for the moment. We’ll work something out in a bit.”

Cassidy takes a seat at the end of the couch. I sit in the closest chair. Moose stands over us.

“I’m sorry about the mix up,” she says, as she twists several strands of her hair.

“Not your fault. I haven’t checked my email this morning. I may have received something about you coming. But you’re very much wanted and needed.”

She nods. She seems a bit shy. That’s good. That’s just what I want for Alvin. There’s a sweetness in her I think he’ll appreciate.

“What do you know about Alvin? Do you think he could be your ‘one’?”

She smiles widely, her dimples popping out. “He sounds so cute, Terry. He’s tall and, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but nerdy. He’s not your typical romance hero.”

Moose laughs. “No, that he isn’t.” He stares at me.

He originally argued against giving any of the Physics Café owners a love interest. They didn’t measure up to his idea of the perfect romance hero.

“No, and his interest is in Physics, and you’re a graduate student in English. Do you think that’ll cause a problem?”

“No, I’ve already been brushing up on some basic physics terms so I won’t seem too stupid.”

I love her enthusiasm. “That’s great, but hardly necessary.”

Cassidy shrugs. “It was no big deal. I’m excited to meet him. When does our story start?”

Moose groans. And his damn Christmas ornaments sway. What the…?

“Did I ask the wrong thing? I didn’t mean…”

I put my hand on top of one of hers. “No, you’re fine. It’s that I still have Alvin here. I didn’t intend for you two to meet before your story started.”

“I’m so sorry.” She rises.

“It’s not your fault. Sit down, Cassidy. It’s fine. Really.”

She narrows her eyes, but she sits.

“I panicked at first. But I think this’ll work out just fine. He’s been asking about you. And he’s excited to meet you.”

Cassidy’s cheeks turn red. “Really? Do you think he’ll like me?”

Moose grunts. I glare at him. Those damn ornaments sway.

“I think he will. He’s new to this, just like you. So it may take a while for you to find out just how much you like each other.”

“That’s an understatement,” Moose mumbles.

Cassidy gives Moose a quick look, then her eyes meet mine. “Is there a problem?”

“No, Alvin had some expectations.” Like your name for one.

“But I’m sure you’re about to exceed all them.” That’s the most diplomatic way to say it.

She bites her lower lip. Nice character trait. I’ll have to remember that.

“I’m nervous.”

“It’s normal.” Moose says. “Your life’s about to change.”

“For the better,” I add. “For the better.”

“Where do we put the platter?” Alvin calls from the kitchen. It’s a chilling reminder that something I’ve never done before is about to happen. So many what ifs in my mind.

“Just leave it on the counter for now. I’ll put it away later.”

“Okay. Hey, what are you two doing out there anyway.” That’s Martin. “I’m coming—”

“Not yet. Give Moose and me one more minute.”

“That doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” Simon laughs. “You guys holding a secret club meeting.”

Cassidy shifts her weight.

“Are you ready? Do you want to meet him.”

She smiles, her dimples showing. “I think so. But wait. I have one question.”

“About Alvin. He’s unique.”

She shakes her head. “No about Moose.” She glances over to him. Then she whispers to me, “Why does he have Christmas ornaments on his antlers?”

4 Apr 25

Guess who’s coming to breakfast?

“When do I get to meet Cassidy?” Alvin plucks another pancake from the breakfast table. “By the way, Martin, you can cook for the Physics Café anytime you want. These are mean pancakes.”

Honestly, the table is getting a tad crowded. In addition to me, there’s Blake, Alvin, Simon, Ted, and, oh yes, Moose. Thankfully, Martin is still flipping pancakes.

“We can call them Parallax Pancakes.” Simon nodded as he chewed.

“Ooh. That’s a good name.” Ted stabs fork-cuts his pancake.

“Excuse me,” Martin says, “what are you even talking about?”

I find it hard to believe Martin hasn’t caught on yet about the Physics Café. And I’m more than happy to tell him, because I’m avoiding answering Alvin’s question.

“These three,”—I deliberately aim my fork at Alvin, Simon, and Ted— “own an eatery called the Physics Café off the campus of the University of Northern Ohio. A lot of my novels are set there.”

“Keep going.” Martin turns to me as he places another finished pancake on the serving tray. “Because that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Every menu item in the café is named after something from some physics concept, or a physicist. Like Feynman Fries, Onion String Theory, and Higgs-Boson Bison Burger.”

“Or even a movie,” Moose adds, “like the Philadelphia Experiment Cheesesteak.”

“That’s my favorite item,” Simon says. “It’s named after the movie The Philadelphia Experiment, where the navy departiclizes an entire ship.”

Martin nods. “Ted created a departiclizer and we use it on the sandwich. It doesn’t work all the time, and when it does work,”—Simon’s voice rose with excitement— “the effect might be delayed. And it only works on onions. So if you’re ever at the café and order it, Martin, and your onions disappear while you’re eating it, you’ll get a free cappuccino.”

Martin shakes his head slowly as he pours the batter for yet another cake. Having all these characters visiting at the same time is sure getting expensive.

“I see. That’s quite clever, actually.”

“Thank you.” Moose and I say at the same time.

Moose huffs. “Who gave you the idea?”

“You may have given me the idea, but then you left to do who knows what, and I was stuck coming up with all the names, like Primordial Soup.”

“We are a team—”

“Guys, I think we’ve lost sight of the original question.” Alvin puts his fork down.

“What’s a parallax?” Blake offers. “Was that the question?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Ted grabs a cloth napkin off one of Moose’s antlers and wipes his mouth. “A parallax refers to the difference in the apparent position of an object viewed along two different lines of sight. It’s measured by the angle or half-angle of inclination between those two lines.”

“Huh?” Martin puts down his spatula. “Can you repeat that in English?”

Blake laughs. “The man’s a bloody genius at physics, but finds it difficult to explain it to us normal people.” He puts down his fork and presses his hands together. “Have you ever ridden in a car, and the vehicle is moving so fast the trees close to you whiz by?”

Martin nods.

“Good, but when you look beyond the trees, to the mountains, they don’t move as fast?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve had that happen.” Martin scratches his head.

“That’s the parallax effect.” Blake sat up straight. “Did I explain that properly?” He looked to Ted.

“Perfectly.”

“STOP IT!” Alvin glares at Blake.

I jolt out of my seat. The napkins fall off of Moose’s antlers. And Martin drops a pancake. Yeah, this is getting costly.

“What’s wrong with you?” Simon asks.

Alvin straightens his posture and adjusts his glasses. “We have not answered the original question. Will I get to meet Cassidy before I see her in the story or not?”

I guess I can’t avoid it forever. I take a deep breath. “No, you will not.”

“But why not?” He sounds like a toddler being denied a second piece of chocolate cake.

“Because, I want you to be genuinely surprised. You already know more than what most characters know at this point. Certainly Blake didn’t meet Alex prior to their meet-cute in their book.”

Martin raises his hand.

“What is it?”

“I know what a meet-cute is now.” He’s grinning.  

Ironically, Martin is more prepared to be a romance hero than Alvin. Though Alvin’s never been a hero, he knows how it works. He’s witnessed several love stories.

“So I don’t get to meet her?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Darn. I didn’t know all this beforehand.”

Obviously. “If you don’t want a happily ever after—”

“No, I do want one.”

“Come on, Al,” Simon says, “it’ll be fine. Terry hasn’t let any of us down yet.”

“And me.” Moose raises a hoof. “I haven’t let you guys down.”

Ted shakes his head. “No, you haven’t.”

The doorbell rings. Now what?

“I’ll get it. Moose pops up out of his chair. Well, as well as a moose can.

“Thank you, Moose.”

“Alvin, just trust me, trust Moose, but most of all, trust the process.”

“Yeah, man,” Simon says, “I want a happily ever after too.”

“Me too.” Ted pushes his empty plate away from him.

“Okay, Terry, I’ll wait until I meet Cassidy in the story.”

“Thank—”

“Oh, Terry,” Moose calls from the living room, “I think you need to come here. You’re not going to believe this.”

“Are the cops here?” I don’t know why I think that, but…

“No, but you need to see who is.”

“Can’t the person come in here?”

“They could, but that’s not a very good idea at the moment.”

I sigh. Deeply. And I rise. “You guys don’t leave the kitchen. You’re doing the dishes. Martin made breakfast; you guys do clean up.”

They grumble but they all nod.

I head for the living room. And when I get there…

A short, curly red head young woman is standing on the porch, suitcase in hand.

“Hi, are you Terry? I’m Cassidy Oglethorpe, your new character.”

I give Moose a quick glance. He shrugs.

Things are about to get interesting.

28 Mar 25

Hitting a creative speed bump

“Cassidy? Her name is Cassidy? What kind of name is that?”

Alvin paced the living room. This isn’t the reaction I had expected. I had expected elation. Maybe gratitude?

“Why can’t I fall in love with someone like Ann, or Kelly”—he pivots—“or Allison?…That’s it. Allison. I’ve always dreamed of falling in love with an Allison.”

While I appreciate the alliteration in their names, that’s not how I envision Alvin’s love.

 “Really?” Moose glares at him. My muse has tennis rackets hanging from his antlers. One on each side. Nicely balanced.

Blake chuckles. “Terry,”—Blake’s British accent calms my nerves—“did you give me any say when you gifted me with Alex? Did I get to pick out a name? Her appearance?”

Is this a trick question? Am I in deep trouble? “Actually, no, Blake. I found Alex for you based on your characteristics. You know, your traits, your mannerisms, and most of all what you needed.”

Blake nodded. But I want to make sure he—and Alvin—understand matching a romance heroine to a romance hero isn’t all about one person.

“And I had to consider what Alex needed as well. I mean it does take two to make a relationship. Her personality required a specific type of man.”

Blake raises an eyebrow. “You mean I’m helping Alex in some way?”

“Well, of course.”

“And here,” he says quietly, “I believed I was the one receiving all the benefits. Alex completes me.”

How sweet. I wipe a tear from my eye. Most of the time, I’m not sure Blake always gets exactly what’s going on. He spends a lot of time reading. An inordinate amount, really. Or his conversations will suddenly veer off on some tangent about some obscure fact or piece of history.

“See, Alvin,” I say recovering from the very rare tender Blake moment. “Your relationship doesn’t depend on the woman’s name. And while you may think you need a very specific type of person, you’re only looking at this from your point of view.”

Moose harrumphs, and the tennis rackets sway. “And Terry and I have to look at both yours and, in this case, it appears Cassidy’s.”

Whoa. “What do you mean, ‘it appears.’ Are you not on board with the name?” Just so y’all know, it was Moose who slipped me that name the other night. I love it. I plan to create a woman with short, red curly hair. Cassidy is Gaelic and means curly hair. See what I did there? Ireland has a high percentage of redheads?

“No, no,”—Moose raises his front hooves— “I like the name. I gave it to you, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes you did.” I sigh. “We’re on the same page then? You don’t have any other names you like better?”

“Allison.” Alvin said.

“No, I’ve decided on the name. Cassidy.”

I give Alvin a hard stare. “And just give her a chance. You’ll fall in love with her.”

Blake raises his hand, as if he’s in school. “May I say something.”

I acknowledge him.

“As the only character in this room who actually has a romantic relationship, I can testify to Terry and Moose’s ability to build a lasting bond. I don’t think I could have selected a finer woman than Alex.

“Sure, she gets carried away sometimes on flights of fancy, especially when it comes to love. But to be honest, I wouldn’t change her for anything. I love her just the way she is.”

“Man, that’s beautiful.” Simon wipes his eye. I didn’t even know he was in the room.

“When did you get here?” I ask. He’s standing in the doorway to the living room.

“Just a few seconds ago. Long enough to hear Blake talk about Alex.” He sighs. “Every time you two come into the Physics Café, we can see how much you love her.”

“Well, I don’t know about Alvin,” Martin says. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet throughout this entire process. “But Blake’s spontaneous testimonial has convinced me. You know what you’re doing. I’m willing to accept my romance heroine.”

Wow. And here I was thinking I’d have more trouble with Martin. You know, being the former international spy. The consummate chef. I was thinking he’d be the one to pitch a fit.

“Thank you, Martin. I’m working on developing the perfect woman for you. She has to have a hint of sophistication, but also have just the right amount naivety. I believe that’s what you need.”

Martin tilted his head. Hmm. That’s a character trait I haven’t seen him do. I’ll have to remember that.

“Yes, I do believe that’ll work. Thank you.”

“You can thank Moose too,” I say. “He’s the one who gives me my best ideas.”

But I still have to convince Alvin.

“What do you say, Alvin. You have to be on board with this. I’m creating a character expressly for you. I can’t tell you how important your cooperation is. If I begin this story, give you a meet-cute”—

“A what?” Alvin rubs a hand over his short crew-cut hair. “What’s a meet-cute?”

Moose chuckles. “That’s an industry-insider term for how you and your romantic heroine meet.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Anyway, I say, if you’re not aligned with your heroine, then the story goes nowhere. And I have an extra character roaming around doing nothing.”

“Like me,” Martin says, “I know what it’s like not to have a plot.”

“Alvin, you’ll always have a purpose because you have the Physics Café.” That’s Moose explaining things. He does do his job sometimes. “But Cassidy will have to hang around waiting for the right man.”

“But what if I really don’t like her? I mean this falling in love thing is scary.”

“It’s a controlled situation,” Moose says. “Terry’s track record of developing the perfect match is rather high.” Moose turns to me. “Do you have any female characters lurking anywhere? You know, because some guy rejected them?”

That brings a laugh from Alvin. If we can’t convince him with logic, maybe we can entice him with some humor.

“No, not one lady has rejected the man I’ve given them. They’re all living with their happily ever afters.”

Alvin sighs.

“Man, take it.” That’s Ted. Another person I didn’t realize I was in the room. “You know, we all would like to have a girlfriend. You’re the first. Don’t screw this up. If you don’t accept this, who knows when Simon and me will get our shot.”

Peer pressure. I like that.

“All right. I’ll give it a try. But if it’s a disaster, do—”

Moose rises from his chair. “I promise you Terry will not give you a disastrous relationship.”

“Okay, I’m in.”

To say I’m relieved is an understatement.

“Great. Good. Now that that’s settled.” Moose takes several steps toward the door. “Martin and I are going tennis-ing.”

Martin jumps up from his seat. “I’m coming.” He moves toward the door, then stops. “Thank you, Terry. I’m looking forward to being a romantic hero.”

“You’re welcome.” Did Moose set him up to distract me?

“Moose, we still have some issues to smooth out with Cassidy. I’m going to need your help.”

“No worries,” Moose calls back, “you can handle it. Toodles.”

21 Mar 25

Moose’s Romance Hero Building Seminar

“Okay, so first thing you need to know…”

It’s six in the morning, and I’m just getting up. I’m stepping over several bodies in sleeping bags, careful not to wake them.

To say it’s odd that I hear Moose talking is an understatement. The moose doesn’t usually rise before nine. So I stop to listen.

“…is that there’s going to be conflict.”

Conflict? I don’t want any conflict in my house.

“You see in a romance novel, you’re just not introduced to some woman and fall in love.”

Interesting. I wonder who Moose is talking to?

“But why? Why do I have to go through all that?”

That’s Alvin. How sweet of Moose to help me out in getting Alvin ready for romance hero-ship. I tip-toe to the office and peek in. Moose is behind my desk, and Alvin and Martin are sitting across from him. Martin has a notebook on his lap and he appears to be taking notes.

“Because anything worth having,” Martin says, looking up, “is worth working for. Right, Moose?”

Moose gives a one-shoulder shrug. Hmm, never knew he could do that.

“That’s part of it. But it’s also for the reader.”

Alvin groans. “I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult.”

I chuckle. Maybe a bit too loudly. Three faces look in my direction.

“Terry, I was just trying to get Alvin ready for his next adventure.” Moose pulls a pen from out of his ear.

“Terry, why do we start with conflict? I just want a nice girl to love. Is that too much to ask?” Alvin sighs. Loudly.

“I’m curious, too,” Martin says.

My eyes are still heavy. I’m not prepared to have this conversation. But I do need my house back. All these characters running around make it chaotic. The sooner they learn how to be romance heroes, the sooner I have peace and quiet.

“Moose, if you give me my seat, I’ll explain a few things to these gentlemen.” Moose rises.

“I’ll make coffee?” he suggests.

Martin and Alvin quickly agree. I’m not sure why they need coffee. I’m the one who woke up to the romance hero workshop. Wow, I wonder if I could conduct these and make some money. There’s a thought.

“Okay, let’s start with the conflict Moose spoke of.” I try to sound intellectual as I help these two understand what they’re getting into.

I glance at my computer. It’s already been turned on. I look again. The site that’s displayed is Building the Romance Hero. And those words.

Don’t tell me…”Moose, could you come in here for a minute?”

“Just a sec,” he says sweetly, “I’m just about done. The coffee will be ready in a moment.”

I sigh. Here, I thought was using his natural muse talents, whatever they are. But no, he’d been reciting word-for-word the information he found on this site. Wait. What if everything he’s given me has been right here on my computer all along. I move the mouse. It’s time I check the history of the computer’s use.

“What’s up, boss?” he asks. Three empty cups are dangling from his antlers. “Just a few more minutes and we’ll all be caffeinated.”

“It’s about the schooling you’re doing.” I turn the screen so Moose can see it.

“Oops. I just thought—”

“How often do you use these sites? More specifically, how often have you used these in helping me with my ideas?”

Moose studies his hooves. “Well, I was kinda—“

“Terry,” Martin says, “I think I’m going to make us all breakfast now.” He rises and takes a cup off an antler. “Alvin, you want to help?””

“I’d love to, man.” He rises, studies Moose for a moment, then snatches a cup off another antler.

“Guys, wait up,” I say. “Grab that last cup for me and pour me some coffee please. I think Moose and I have a long conversation ahead of us.”

“Of course.” Martin grabs the last cup. He purposely strides out of the room. Alvin is following close behind.

“Would you guys?” Moose starts…

“…You’re on your own, man,” Alvin replies. “Good luck.”

“But I’ll still get breakfast, won’t I?” Moose’s breathing is shallow.

“You’ll get breakfast. Just don’t freak out on me. We just need to chat a bit. Take a seat.”

Moose harrumphs.

“You do know that both Martin and Alvin trust you to give them good advice. You helped me develop Alvin. He’s part of your magic.” I’m hoping the use of the word magic will trigger something within the muse. What, I’m not sure.

“And honestly, you’re partly responsible for Martin since you seem to be moonlighting for Jack Sorbet.” If you’re not aware Martin Moses was a protagonist in one of Sorbet’s thriller books. Failed protagonist. The story Sorbet had been working on didn’t develop properly. That left Martin, a main character without a purpose or a plot.

Moose nods.

“Here’s your coffee, Terry,” Alvin tentatively steps into the office. He places the cup on the desk. “And I brought one for Moose, if that’s okay?”

Evidently Alvin had a change of heart. He gives me a lost-puppy-dog look. So does Moose.

“Yes,” I sigh. “Give him the coffee. After all, he made it.”

“Thanks.” Moose takes the cup from the man.

I take a sip. Moose does make good coffee. Even if his muse talents dried up, I’d probably keep him around to make coffee. Speaking of which…

“Are your muse talents getting low? Is that why you Googled romance hero-building?”

He shakes his head. “No, my muse talents are still good. Wait till I tell you about the girl I have in mind for Alvin.”

“Woman. She better be over eighteen or we have a completely different book on our hands.”

Moose laughs. “Yeah, you’re right woman. Anyway, they caught me off guard this morning. They were in the living room talking. Alvin’s super excited to get his own story. He’s tired of being just Alvin.” Moose gestures air quotes. Well, as well as a moose can with hooves. “He’s ready.”

I nod. “I understand being caught off guard by a character. You bringing Martin home. It’s like you had a baby I didn’t know about.”

Moose blushes. Really. Moose blush? “I’m sorry I never told you about my moonlighting. Jack was in a tough situation and needed a little extra help.”

“And then you just bring Blake home. Wait? Where is he?”

“Bloody early for all this commotion in the house?” The distinctive English accent. Right on cue.

“About time you woke up. You’ve missed Moose’s Romance Hero Building Seminar.” I study Blake. I never noticed how terribly mussed his hair is first thing in the morning.

“Bloody bad luck,” he says, “I’d love to have sit in on that. Will he be doing that again anything soon?”

“No, absolutely not.” Moose holds up a hoof. “I’ll let Terry hold them from here on out.”

“Breakfast’s ready!” Martin calls from the kitchen. “Sausage gravy and biscuits!”

“You Americans do know how to eat. I’m coming!” Blake says as he takes several long strides toward the kitchen.

“Are we good?” Moose asks me. “I didn’t mean to give cookie-cutter advice.”

“We’re good. How about we go eat? We can talk how we can build a better romance hero over some food.” I rise, check my coffee cup. It’s empty. I place it on one of Moose’s antlers. “Thanks.”

Moose double checks his own cup, then places it on another antler.

I leave the office, and Moose follows me. “Terry, we really could hold a Romance Hero Building Seminar. Something like the Six Million Dollar Man on television back in the day. We could help other authors build them.”

“We could, Moose. We could. We’ll discuss that, too, over breakfast.”

14 Mar

The downside of creativity

I should be writing. I know I should be writing. The conditions are perfect. Moose, Martin, and Blake left early this morning. They said they had to help some friends move something. Silence. The house is blissfully quiet.

But instead of writing, I’m scouring the kitchen for something to eat. Martin left without making breakfast. I open the refrigerator thinking about how long I can put off the inevitable: giving the man his own story.

Jack Sorbet created a good character. He just wasn’t cut out as a hero for a thriller. Martin Moses looks like he’s developing into a respectable romance hero (fingers crossed). But once I give him his story, he’ll only be visiting occasionally, and I’ll lose my chef. No one ever warned me about the downside of creativity.

Hmm. Leftover macaroni and cheese. That looks tempting. I look up at the clock. Not at 9:30 in the morning, though. I’m sure I’ll find something.

“Happy Pi Day!” Moose shouts. “Where are you?” His footfalls sound louder. He’s headed this way.

“Shh!” He says in a stage whisper. “Not so loud guys. We’re surprising her, remember?”

“Surprising me with who and what?” I close the refrigerator, and brace myself for whatever this surprise is.

“You ruined it Moose.” That voice.

“Yeah, I wanted to see her reaction to us.” A different voice.

No, it couldn’t be. Well, who else would celebrate Pi Day?

“Is that you Alvin? Ted? And Simon better be with you.”

“I am! And we bring gifts.”

Before I can even take a step, the three of them are in my kitchen.

“It’s so good to see you again. You’ve been away far too long.” I give them each a hug.

I turn to Moose, who has blue helium ballons with the pi symbol in white tied to his antlers. “Did you do this for me?”

He hesitates to answer. “Oh, come on. You can admit you do thoughtful things for your writer. After all, you’re my muse.”

“Love,” Blake says, his English accents sounding dangerously pronounced. I think I’m in trouble.

“Wait.” That’s Martin. “We bring pies. Well, Alvin, Simon, and Ted do.” He holds up a bag. As he walks toward the counter to deposit it, he says, “These fellows seem nice, if nerdy”—he nods toward the three owners of the Physics Café— “but their names are squirrel names?”

“Chipmunks,” Moose corrects him. “They’re named after chipmunks. That was my idea.”

Alvin sighs. “Of course it was. I don’t know why I got stuck with the worst name.”

“It’s not the worst name,” Blake says, “I like it.”

“Anyway,” I say, “it’s great to see you, and did someone say pie? Did you happen to bring an apple pie?”

“Of course. We know it’s you’re favorite,” Simon says. “I’ll cut you a piece now.” He heads toward the pies. “Where do you…?”

“I’ll get the utensils,” Martin says, and dashes toward counter.

“Hey, guys, take a seat.” I motion toward the table. “Blake, would you make some coffee, please?”

“Of course, love.” He strides toward the coffee maker, his hair bouncing in rhythm.

I sit down with my characters, the aroma of coffee is wafting throughout the room, and Moose, Simon, and Blake are laughing as they cut the pie.

“Here you go, Terry.” Simon places a slice of pie in front of me.

“And here’s your coffee,” Blake says, “served in your favorite sunflower yellow mug.”

“Thank you.” This increasingly feels less like a Pi Day visit more like I-need-you-to-do-me-a-favor lobbying.

“What’s up guys? What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s up.” Moose says. “Can’t good friends just gather  ’round the kitchen table, talk about old times, and enjoy one’s company.”

“I’m crushed,” Martin says, “that you believe something nefarious is occurring.”

“Nefarious?” I shake my head. “Not, nefarious. But it feels like there are ulterior motives for this pie fest.”

“Pi Day.” Ted’s shoulders slump. “It’s what nerds like us do on Pi Day.”

“Okay.” I don’t buy it, but I don’t want to ruin my pie experience, so I fork-cut a piece and put it into my mouth. Ooh…so good. I wash it down with a sip of coffee. “Did Avery make these?”

Avery Apple is the owner of Avery’s Apples and More bake shop in Bell Wyck, Ohio.

“Yes, he did,” Ted says.

“Avery wanted to be here,” Alvin says, “but he had an important meeting with a potential client.”

“Good for him. He’s an excellent baker.”

I take the last bite of my pie, and drink the rest of my coffee. “Blake, this coffee was perfect. Thank you.”

Maybe I was wrong. This Pi Day celebration is just that. Just friends getting together. I rise. “Well, guys this has been fun. Alvin, Simon, Ted, you guys have been away for too long. Don’t be strangers.”

Moose clears his throat. Every muscle in my body tenses.

“What?” I glare at him. I now just notice the helium balloons are bouncing off the ceiling. Moose now has a triangular pie-serving spatula on an antler. Honestly, I didn’t even know I owned one.

“It’s not Moose’s fault.” Alvin said. “We asked him for help.”

“Help? Why didn’t you lead with this?” These guys would make horrible journalists.

“Well,” Simon says, “it’s not a life-threatening kind of problem we have.”

“But,” Ted says, “it can definitely be life-changing.”

Oh. My. God. Now they’re all writers.

I sit back down. “What do you guys need?” I’m sure I’ll come to rue this moment. But I do love these three guys.

“A girlfriend?” Alvin whispers.

“You know, JJ and Kenn found true love at the Physics Café. So did Cagney and Brad. We feel left out.” Ted studies the tablecloth.

“You all want a girlfriend?” By the expression on their faces, I’d say the answer is yes.

“You know, Terry.” Martin steps away from the counter. “I appreciate that you’re trying to make me a romance hero. But it’d be a good experience for me to see how you actually do it. I may gain some insight to make me a better character.”

Let the lobbying begin. Honestly, though, they each deserve love as much as any of my other characters. Even if it’s nerdy love.

“Are you sure, Martin? You don’t mind me working on these guys first? It may take a while.”

“What we’re not that hopeless. Are we?” Simon asks.

“No, that’s not at all what I meant.”

“That’s exactly what she meant,” Martin whispers to Moose.

“Stop it.” I study the room, and shrug. “Okay. Who’s first?”

“What?” Simon asks.

“Who’s story do I write first? Who gets the girl first?” I scan the room. The guys are smiling.

“Alvin should.” That’s Blake.

I turn to him. He has the refrigerator door open.

“Oh, look. There’s macaroni and cheese left.”

“Blake, why should Alvin be the first?”

“Isn’t it obvious, love?” He pulls out the container of macaroni and cheese, and closes the door. “He doesn’t like his name. It would boost his self-confidence.”

Leave it to Blake to be thoughtful. But it makes sense. As long as…

“I think that’s a great idea,” Simon says.

“Me too,” Ted agrees.

“Okay, let’s start…wait. That means you three have to stay here for a while.”

Moose laughs. “That’s how it usually works.”

“Our sleeping bags are in the living room.” Ted shrugs. “We were hoping you’d agree.”

I sigh. It’s hard to believe just an hour ago I was worried about Martin leaving me. I guess I needn’t have. It looks like all my characters come back. Often.

7 Mar 25

“Women love a penitent man.”

I’m staring at a blank document. You know the type of document Jodi Picoult said you can’t edit. It seems I can’t even get any words on it.

“Terry, guess who I found?” It’s Moose’s voice. I guess won’t be editing this page for a while.

“It’s hard to say. Who did you find?”

Moose has been suspiciously out of the house all morning. He left bright and early, and was very evasive about where he was going. Martin, my slightly used character, on the other hand, has been in the kitchen creating a myriad of foods. Not anything with eggs, mind you. We’ve put the omelets on hold for a while.

You’d think I’d be able to get some writing done. Maybe I can’t write without interruptions. It’s a terrifying thought.

Moose saunters up to the doorway. “It’s somebody you know,” he sings.

“That could be anybody,” I sing back, hitting a high note I didn’t know I had. “Just tell me.” Really, where did Moose get all this energy?

He walks into the room, turns toward the hallway, and points a hoof at a man.

“Where did you find him?” I leap out of my seat and sprint to him. “Blake, what are you doing here?”

Blake Teesdale is a character from my books. We first meet him in Rewrites of the Heart. He’s the creation of JJ Spritely, romance author. He and Alex Zurich are her characters who jump out of their story to help JJ write her own love story—with varying degrees of success.

“Terry, it’s been a while,” he says, his black hair waving as he bends down to hug me. “Moose found me at the library. He said you needed my help?” His English accent is pronounced.

“He did?” I turn to Moose. “Why do I need Blake’s help?” Then I turn back to Blake. “It’s not that I don’t love you. I’m just at a loss of why Moose would search you out.”

Moose puts his hooves on his hips. Wow, I didn’t even know moose had hips. Anyway, he’s giving me this look like I’m lost.

“Because he’s needed.” Moose harrumphs.

“For what?” He may be a good muse, but sometimes he’s rather cryptic.

Moose sighs a frustrated sigh. “What is this man?”

I sigh a frustrated sigh back.

That’s when Blake interrupts us. “If I may make a slight suggestion, this conversation would go a lot smoother if you both just get to the point, mates.”

I steal a glance at Moose. “Yeah, mate,” I say, “get to the point. Why do I need Blake?”

“Because he’s a romance hero, and you have someone in your kitchen right now—”

Clank! Bang! Clash!

The noises are coming from the kitchen. Perfect timing.

“It’s all right!” Martin yells. “I’m perfectly fine. And I’ll pay for whatever I broke.”

“You better,” I say. I walk past Blake on my way to the kitchen. Wait a minute. How is Martin going to pay for anything? He doesn’t have a job. I wonder if the IRS would accept broken kitchen items as a business deduction. I shake my head. Probably not.

I walk into the kitchen, the large mixer is on the floor, what once was a large glass bowl is now shattered, and some type of batter is everywhere.

“Bloody hell!” Blake said. “What happened here?”

“I had a slight”— Martin eyes my character—“who are you?” “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Moose steps around the shards of glass. Not an easy feat (no pun intended) for a Moose. “No, Martin, you don’t, but I’m hoping you two will become fast friends.”

I’m standing in my own kitchen, with two fictional characters and a muse. And somehow the muse seems to be taking charge of the situation. When did I lose control?

“You see,” he says, ignoring my dirty look, “Blake is a real romance hero.”

Ahem. Blake puffs up his chest. I shake my head.

“And I thought maybe he could help you learn the ropes of the job.”

I groan.

“What? What’s wrong with Blake?” Moose asks.

“What is wrong with me?” Blake crosses his arms over his chest.

 “If you recall, I helped you create him,” Moose said.

“You did.” I nod.

“And everyone loves him.”

I sigh. “They do.”

Moose smiles. “And isn’t that the point of a romance hero?”

“It is.” He’s got me. But, Blake?

“Martin, women love a penitent man.” Blake kneels next to him, helping with the cleanup. Well, that’s something.

“Apologize profusely and Terry will forgive you.”

“Really? She’s not going to boot me out? Last week I dropped a plate with an omelet.”

“Ooh. That might be a problem. But, if you’re remorseful enough, you should be okay. Go ahead. Try an apology, mate. Just make it sincere.”

I’m watching them. Closely. Has the mentoring begun?

“Uh, Terry,” Martin begins, “I’m sorry about this mess. As I said, I’ll pay for the damages.” He winks at me. Then he glances at Blake who mouths something.

“Oh…and I’ll try to do better in the future.”

“I accept your apology, Martin.” I buy myself some time. Should I make this difficult for him?

Blake nudges him. “See, it works.”

“I’m not sure it works the way you think it does. At least not on me. We’ll have to try it out on your leading lady.”

Martin’s still squatting, cleaning. “When will I get to meet her?” And he winks. Wow.

“Soon, I hope. I’m still developing her personality. I want to make sure it’s a perfect match.”

“Terry gave me Alex.” Blake sighs. “And she’s perfect. I love her with all my heart.”

Blake does love Alex Zurich. His devotion to her even amazes me sometimes.

“This is all great,” Moose interrupts, “but the bottom line is we’ve still got a lot of work to do. Martin still needs to be molded into the romance hero. That’s why I invited Blake to stay for a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks?” I groan.

“Really, I can stay?” Blake springs up, and pumps Moose’s hoof. “Thank you. I won’t let you down. I’ll teach him everything I know.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm for this project, Moose. And yours Blake.” I nod his way. “But I don’t have room for another character. Martin’s romance heroine should be visiting soon,”—as soon as I figure out who she is— “and there’d be no place for her to stay.”

Martin clears his throat. “May I suggest my bed?” And he winks.

“Yeah,” Blake says.

“Blake Teesdale you know better than that. That doesn’t happen until the characters know each other.”

“But it could be the start of a one-bed trope?” Moose says. “Think about it.”

“A one-bed trope?” Martin smiles. Widely. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s exactly what you think it is,” Blake says. He winks.

What? Is everyone winking now?

“Stop! Everyone stop! We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” They stare at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“First, we don’t have a romance heroine for you, Martin. Not yet. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Martin nods.

“And Blake, do you think you can mold Martin into a romance hero? His previous backstory is that of a spy.”

“Ooh, the best kind of romance hero,” Blakes rubs his hands together. “Of course, I can.”

“See, it’ll all work out.” Moose waves a hoof in the men’s direction. Both are standing now. The floor is nearly free of debris.

“Here’s the deal. Blake, you’ll have to sleep on the couch. Sorry, but that’s all that’s left.”

“No worries, Terry. Remember that scene when I was at JJ’s and I had to sleep on the couch?”

“Yes, I do. Good. But you’re not here to goof off. You’ve got to shape Martin into a romance hero. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“I can and I will. I won’t disappoint you.”

For some insane reason, I believe him. I’ll probably live to regret this.

“Okay, well, what are we waiting for? You two clean, and”—I turn to Moose— “I really could use you with this blank page I’ve been staring out.”

“I’d love to Terry, but I’ve got a horticultural class I must attend.” He eases himself toward the back door. Amazingly graceful for such a large creature. “It’s getting to be spring and all. I thought I’d freshen the front yard.”

He grabs the doorknob. “Tootles!” Martin nudges Blake. “Horitculture? That’s not something I’ll be required to know, is it?”

28 Feb 25

“You have to break a few eggs…”

“What the hell are you doing? You better not have brought a woman and,”—I flail my arms—“you know, had her stay overnight.”

Splat! The plate Martin had been holding crashes to the ground, and with it the omelet.

It’s too early in the morning for this.

“Look what you did!” Martin Moses, my new-to-me character, runs a hand through his hair. “That was my best one yet.”

“Best one? Yet? How many omelets have you made?” I take a deep breath. “Have you seen the price of eggs these days?”

Wait. There’s a deeper question here. “Why are you making omelets, as in multiple? How many women are here?”

Martin is the former character of Jack Sorbet, internationally acclaimed spy and thriller novelist—and a casualty of the author’s imagination. Martin’s story wasn’t workable, and he became an orphan character. A partially developed character without a plot or a purpose. And Moose, who apparently moonlights with Sorbet, brought him to me to rewrite him.

And we told Martin that in every romance book, the romantic hero makes an omelet for the heroine the morning after. Now I’m wondering how many women he’s brought home, er, to my place.

“You know you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet.” Martin glares as me, even as he’s picking up the shattered plate pieces.

“What a cliché,” I sigh. “Is that one of the lines Sorbet wrote for you?” I reach for the paper towels and help clean up the omelet.

“It is,” he says defensively, “and I like it.” He winks at me. “And it seems appropriate here.”

“Maybe your lack of your own story isn’t all your fault,” I say. “Jack should be a better writer than that. I’ll give you more original lines.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Moose enters the kitchen with a back from Zingo’s, the local supermarket. “Martin, I leave you alone for thirty minutes, and this?”

It’s rare for Moose to act responsibly, so I’m enjoying this. But I can’t let Martin take the fall for the accident I caused.

“I startled him when I walked in on him.” I’m still on the floor. “Martin, this omelet looks really good. By the way, why are you making multiple omelets?”

I admit it. I got sidetracked. I’m praying he doesn’t have woman in his room.

“Oh, Moose thought it’d be a good idea if I practice making them, as it seems to be a requirement in romance novels.” Still crouched down on the floor, he shrugs. “I’m just trying to get into character.”

Ahh, the man is trying. How sweet. But still…the price of eggs. I glance at Moose, who’s busy, well, he’s not busy. He’s sitting at the table watching us, grocery bag in front of him.

“I’m trying here,” he says, “I took the one thing Martin is excited about and had him practice. Hopefully, it’ll make him feel more like a romance hero.”

Martin stands. “I’m right here, folks. I may be fictional, but I can hear you.”

And the grocery bag. These two are masters of deflection. “What’s in the bag?” Rarely, if ever, does Moose go shopping.

“Eggs?” he whispers. “Three dozen eggs?”

“For Martin to practice with?” I ask.

Moose nods his head ever so slowly. I can barely see his antlers move. “Maybe not one of my better ideas?”

“Maybe not.” But honestly, Moose is trying. And Martin seems to actually be on board with being a romance hero. So progress is being made. Expensive progress, but progress nonetheless.

I realize I’m still squatting on the floor, paper towels filled with what honestly what looks like a delicious omelet. I also realize it’s deadly silent in the room. I suspect my character and my muse are waiting for me to explode.

I rise slowly, not for dramatic effect, but because my knees aren’t what they used to be. If they want to think I’m being dramatic, all the better. They’re staring at me expectantly. I turn and throw the omelet remnants in the trash.

“Okay, guys, here’s the thing.” It feels as if they’ve both taken a collective breath. “If you, Martin, are making omelets, and this is what you’re going to do in the novels I write, then I want to taste them.”

A smile slowly creeps across his face.

“I like cheese, onion, and if we have some ham, that would be great.”

“Yeah, yeah, we have ham. I’ll make you one right now.” Martin goes to the sink to wash his hands.

“Thank you. And make sure you make one for Moose and yourself. We’re going to have breakfast together.”

Moose beams. “Awesome. Then I didn’t screw up?”

“You did, but your heart was in the right place. Why don’t you get the coffee maker ready. I’m in need of coffee.” Lots and lots of coffee.

****

Martin has created three perfect omelets. Fluffy, filled with goodness, and delicious. I grab a paper towel from the roll on Moose’s antler, and wipe my mouth.

“Martin, that was delicious,” I say, as I rise, “you are making progress on being a romance hero.” He winks at me.

“But now, I must go.” I walk toward the door. “I’m headed to the coffee shop to get some writing done. I trust the two of you will clean up.”

I nod at Moose and smile. “You’ll help Martin, won’t you Moose?”

“I’m…I…”

“Great. I’m off. Toodles!” I say as I head for the office to grab my laptop.

“Wait!” Moose says.

I don’t stop, but I am listening.

“That’s my line!”

21 Feb 25

The rewriting of Martin Moses

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with Martin eating breakfast. This is Day 1 of Rewriting Martin Moses. He’s my slightly used character.  Moose dropped him off on my doorstep last week. Formerly a part of the imagination of the thriller writer Jack Sorbet, Martin lost his story. Jack just couldn’t write a book around him. Now I know why.

He stares at his French toast as if it were a bomb that needs to be disarmed. “I don’t eat French toast. It’s not my idea of a breakfast.”

I take a bite of the toast. Mmm. “Moose, you’ve outdone yourself this time. This is delicious.”

“Thanks, I think the natural tangy-ness of the sourdough bread really makes a difference.” He’s standing at the stove, a kiss-the-cook apron on, a spatula dangling from one antler.

Martin fork cuts a slice, squishes up his face, and puts it in his mouth. He chews slowly, very slowly. Perhaps it’s is past life as a spy that makes him eat that way. Maybe he thinks we’re trying to poison him.

“It’s adequate, I suppose.” He sighs.

“What is your go-to breakfast?” I ask, as I pour a bit more maple syrup over mine.

“What a normal guy eats.” He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Three eggs, four sausage links, two biscuits with sausage gravy, and home fries.” He shakes his head. “Not those wimpy hashbrowns.”

“So apparently, eating something like French toast makes you less, well, macho? Would that be the correct word?”

“Ms. Newman, I’m a spy. An operative. I lead a very high-stress, fast-paced life. My body demands those calories.” He lifts his cup. “At least the coffee is good.”

Moose moves to the table and adds a couple of more slices of French toast to the plate that’s well-stocked to begin with.

“Martin, this whole rewriting bit will go a lot faster,”—Moose sits at the table, an empty plate in front of him—“if you learn how to bend a little.”

Martin harrumphs. “I’m trying. It’s just I’m invested in my career. I’m good at what I do. And,”—he takes a deep breath— “it hurt my ego to get fired.”

Well, now we’re getting somewhere. I steal a glance at Moose. The spatula hanging from his antler has been replaced by a roll of paper towels. I grab one off the roll and wipe my hands.

“You never got fired.” I tell him. Okay, he did get fired. “You decided to retire.”

“I had no say in what—”

“Listen to Terry. It’s all about making changes to your character. You’re no longer who Jack Sorbet said you were. You now have the freedom to become anything you want.”

Martin raises his eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Within reason,” I say nearly spitting out my coffee. “Within reason.”

I grab another towel off the roll on my muse’s antler, and wipe my mouth. “Let’s start with the scenario that you’ve retired.”

“I’m a little young to retire, don’t you think?”

“No, here’s the beauty of rewriting your backstory. You retired early,” I tell him.

Moose squirms in his seat. “I see where you’re going with this. He got injured. Severely injured.”

“I did?” Martin takes another bite of French toast. I guess it wasn’t that bad after all.

“You did.” I say. “In the line of duty, saving the King.” I’m getting excited with what I can do with this backstory. “Can you do a British accent?”

“Of course, I’m an operative. It’s part of my cover to do accents.”

“That was a good accent.” Moose says through his chewing. It really was.

“So because you saved his life, he’s giving you,”—I shrug—“I don’t know something fantastic.”

“I know,” Moose holds up his fork. “A castle with acres of land. And perhaps a stable of horses.”

That’s good, I think, but Martin has to like it.

“I’ve always thought of myself as a castle-type of man,” Martin says, sounding distinctly British. He studies Moose, then me. “But is that even realistic?”

Moose laughs. “This woman here”—he points at me with his fork— “can make it realistic. Don’t underestimate her imagination.”

Martin sighs. “You promised me a love interest.” He winks.

Does that mean he’s in? He’s willing? I may have to get to know some of the ingrained habits of my-new-to-me character. Truthfully, he has a charming wink.

“Yeah,” I say slowly, “I write romance.” I put my fork down and rest my elbows on the table. “In romance, you have a happily ever after. That means, you have one”—I hold up my index finger—“love interest. You can’t go having trysts.”

Martin rubs the back of his neck. The rewriting of Martin Moses isn’t going to be easy.

“I’m not used to that.”

“But she’ll be your soulmate.” Moose pours more syrup on his French toast. “You’ll find her in the most extraordinary location, in the most unexpected way, and you’ll experience this zing of electricity you’ve never felt with any other woman in your life. Her mere presence will revolutionize your life.”

“Really? Soulmates? I’ve heard about those.”

“You could have one,” Moose says before he stuffs a forkful of toast in his mouth.

Moose holds up a hoof while he chews. Once he swallows he says, “It will be the most romantic moment of your life.”

“Will I have to eat French toast for breakfast for the rest of my life?” My adopted character scrutinizes his plate.

“Well,” I say, but Moose interrupts me.

“No, but here’s the deal. The morning after (if you know what I mean)”—he winks— “the man traditionally makes an omelet for the woman. And anything else you want to eat. Sausage. Biscuits with sausage gravy.”

“I do love to cook occasionally.” Martin retrieves his cup.

“You do?” Well, that’s something I didn’t know about him. That would make his character even more attractive.

“I’ve often thought about…no, it’s stupid. I’m just a character, after all.”

“Nothing’s stupid, Martin,” I say as I lean over the table. “And you’re not just a character. You’re a character with infinite potential.” I look him in the eye. “What have you thought about?”

He has a faraway look in his eyes. He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve always wanted to go to culinary school. Become a chef.”

Moose spits out his coffee. “Holy moly, Martin. That’s great. What a wonderful twist to your story.”

I’ve got to agree with Moose.  What an absolute premise for a story.

“You’ve got it,” I tell him. I stand up and extend my hand. “If you’re willing to love one woman and only one woman, you’ll be a chef.”

“Really? Is the woman beautiful? Is she caring? She’s not a retired operative too, is she?”

“No, and she’s everything you want her to be. We can talk about that soon. What do you say?”

Martin grabs my hand and pumps it. “You’ve got yourself a retired spy turned chef. Thank you.” He winks at me.

Moose stands. Pulls a paper towel from the roll on his antler. “Well, that’s great. But I’ve got to run.”

“Where are you going?” I have plans to map out this novel. I need him for that.

“Martin and I are going to check out local cooking stores. And maybe sign us up for a couple of cooking lessons. You know, to help him get in character.” He nods at me, then places his attention on Martin. “Are you in?”

“I am,” he says. He throws down his napkin. “Let’s go.”

They act like kids as they scramble for the door.

“Hey,” I say, “who’s doing the dishes?”

“You are!” Moose says. “You can’t expect our guest to do them. Here, catch!”

He tosses the roll of paper towels to me.

Martin winks at me.

 “Toodles!”

14 Feb 25

“You can rewrite him.“

“Yoo-hoo, anyone home?”

I groan. I was in the middle of writing such an inspired paragraph. “Was” is the operative word.

“I’m in the office.” I sigh.

Moose, my writing muse, soon appears in the doorway. And yes, he’s a moose, antlers and all.

“You know how you were searching for an idea for a new book? Trying to come up with a new character?”

He’s right. I am. I want to start a new series. I’ve started a notebook listing names and traits for the perfect characters.

He steps inside the room. Behind him…is a man? A handsome man. Tall, black wavy hair, broad shoulders.  Are those blue eyes?

“Meet Martin. Martin Moses.”

“Uhm…Hi…hi, Martin.” I finger wave at him. He nods.

“Well, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

Martin’s still in the doorway seriously studying my office. He’s squinting at the books on my shelves. Now he’s scrutinizing the photos on the walls.

“About Martin. He’s your new character!” Moose looks pleased with himself.

“I-I-I’m lost.” I shake my head. There must be cobwebs in my brain.

“Consider it a Valentine’s Day present. You needed a new character. I delivered.”

“Delivered?” I study the man again. “I don’t understand. Where did he come from?”

I have to admit, though, it’s not everyday someone gives me a handsome man…wait. What am I talking about?

“I need more context, Moose.”

“Martin Moses?”— he nods an antler toward the man still in the doorway. “He’s Jack Sorbet’s character.” Jack Sorbet is an incredibly talented author who writes spy novels and thrillers.

“So?”

Moose sighed as if I were so dense I couldn’t see the obvious. In the meantime, Martin is still in my doorway.

“Martin,” I say, “why don’t you come in and have a seat.” I wave a hand to the love seat. Make yourself comfortable.” This may take a while.

Martin nods in acknowledgement, then sits down.

“If Jack Sorbet created Martin, why is he in my office?”

Then it dawns on me. “How do you know about Sorbet’s characters”—No, it couldn’t be—“unless you’re cheating on me? Are you someone else’s muse too?”

Moose winces. “I wouldn’t call it cheating, that’s such a dirty word. I’m moonlighting. Yeah, that’s it. Moonlighting.”

“Why?”

Honestly, the muse can barely keep up his duties with me.

Moose shrugs.

“Wait. I don’t want to know.” I have more pressing matters to deal with, like the handsome man on the loveseat.

“I want to know why Mr. Moses is in my office.”

“Like I was telling you, Jack created him. I warned against it, but—”

“Hey, I take offense at that.” Martin talks?

I turn to the man. “We’ll deal with that later too. Just let him get through this story. Please.”

Martin nods.

“Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

“Anyway, Martin was in this story that just wasn’t going anywhere.”

Boy, don’t I understand that problem.

“And Jack abandoned the story. Shredded his hard copies of the incomplete manuscript and deleted it from his hard drive. Now, Martin is a character without a purpose. But worse yet, he’s a character with no story. No plot. He needs a story, a plot, and a purpose.”

“I do. I am in desperate need of a purpose.” Martin winks at me.

“And you needed a new character…” Moose splays his hooves. “You see what’s happening here?”

“Yeah, you’re dumping a used character on me.”

“Wait. One. Minute.” Martin jumps up.

“No offense Martin. But you’re already formed. You have backstory, habits. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Moose opens his mouth, but I hold up a finger. “And besides, you’re not a romance hero. Sure, you may find a woman someone along your mission, but you spy types never stay with her. Right? I mean the next mission and—poof!—you find another beautiful, if shallow, woman to make love to. And then you leave her. I need a character who commits to a happily ever after.”

Martin groans.

“See, Moose,”—I point at the man— “he doesn’t even like happily ever afters.”

Moose takes a step toward me, and whispers in my ear. “Terry, you can rewrite him.”

“I heard that.” Martin paced the room, then pivoted. “And I think I might resent it.”

Moose glares at the man. “Do you want your life to have a plot? Do you want your own story?”

Martin sits down. “I do.”

“See, he’s willing to change. The man needs a purpose.”

“I do,” Martin says weakly. “I do.”

“So it’s all settled.” Moose walks toward the back closet.

“Wait.” I take another look at Martin Moses. The man has a good name. And all the features for a grand romantic hero. “Martin, you were a spy?”

“Yes. Yes, I was…and a good one too. I don’t care what Sorbet says.”

During this conversation, Moose is inching toward the closet.

“Would you be willing to accept a happily ever after?” I place a hand on my hip. “Of course, it’d be with the perfect woman. I’d have to think about her characteristics.”

I’m slowly realizing that Martin Moses, former spy, may be just the man I’m looking for. I don’t know how Moose does this.

“The perfect woman?” Marin raises an eyebrow.

I nod.

“Well.” He smiles. I guess if you’re willing to rewrite me, I’m willing to be rewritten.” He winks at me.

“Perfect. You’ve got a deal.” I extend my hand and we shake on it.

“Moose, does Martin have luggage?” I figure he can have the spare bedroom.

“Lots of emotional baggage, that’s for sure.” Moose laughs. “No, just kidding. I already put his luggage in the spare bedroom. I had a feeling you’d keep him.”

Of course, he did.

“Okay, Martin. You can make yourself at home. Are you hungry? There’s food in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Go get something to eat. We’ll talk later about what type of love interest you’d like.”

He smiles broadly. “Thanks. I’m starved.” He’s at the door, when he turns and says, “Thanks, Moose. I appreciate it.”

Moose waves a hoof and eyes him as he leaves. Then he opens the closet door.

“What are…?” He pulls out a tuba? I didn’t even know the closet was big enough to fit a tuba.

“Well, my work is done here.” He puts the tuba over his head.

“Shoot. These antlers get in the way every time.” He struggles with it for a while. The metal of the instrument clanging against his antlers. He finally gets in on and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To music lessons. I’m learning to play the tuba. Enjoy your new character. I can’t wait to read the story.”

“You’re going to help me with Martin’s story aren’t you?”

“Byeee.” Moose waves a hand and leaves the room.

“Aren’t you?”

7 Feb 25

When inspiration strikes…in the shower

“WHAT?!”

I throw back the shower curtain and reach for the towel on the rack. I frantically wrap it around myself as I stare at Moose.

“What are doing in the shower? Have you ever heard of the word privacy?”

My muse sighs, sounding irritated. “Have you never heard of writers getting inspired in the shower?” He asks.

I turn off the water. “Yes, but—”

“Consider yourself inspired!” He flashes me a grin.

“Let me guess, you’ve got a brilliant idea that means I have to drop everything I’m doing.” I step out of the shower, wondering what he has for me now.

He follows me out. Thwack! Thwack!  I shake my head, and look down at his hooves. “Do I want to know why you’re wearing those things?”

He raises his hooves, then drops them down, chuckling at the sound. “I’m going snorkeling after our little chat.” He pulls a mask off one of his antlers. “See.” He deliberately puts it over his head—no easy task considering he’s, well, a moose.

He grabs the snorkel from the other antler. “Viola! SnorkelMoose!”

“I see. I’m going to dress. When I come out of the bedroom, I want to hear what you have for me.”

His snorkel moves in rhythm with his nod. I take that as a yes.

As I dress, he turns on the television. He’s got the news on, and he’s arguing with the anchor.

“Who made you an expert?” “But you didn’t ask him the most important question!”

When I emerge from the bedroom, he’s sitting on the edge of the wingback his moose elbows on his moose thighs. He’s still wearing the snorkeling gear. It’s quite a sight.

“Okay, tell me about your grand idea.” I walk over to my desk, retrieve my pad and pen, and then return to sit on the couch. “Out with it.”

He sighs. Evidently I’m interrupting. I snatch the remote and turn the television off.

Moose turns to me, coffee in hand. “I was in the middle—”

“First inspiration, then television.”

He nods, his snorkel dangling. “Okay, how about this”—he makes a grand gesture with his hooves, like he’s a film director— “Murder at the Bigfoot Convention.”

My eyes widen. “What a title. It’s brilliant.” I scribble the title down. “Tell me more.” I’m poised to take the details.

He doesn’t answer, but I hear a strange sound, like a blowing sound. I look at him. Moose is playing the snorkel like a wind flute.

“Moose! Stop it. You’re supposed to be inspiring me. Now tell me more about Murder at the Bigfoot Convention. It could be a great cozy mystery.”

“Yup, it could.” He’s now taken off the mask and studying it.

“Sooo, tell me.”

“It’s in your Physics Café universe.” He fumbles with the mask as he puts it back on.

“Ooh, that’s great. I’ve wanted to use that place more.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He’s thinking. That’s it. He’s considering his words carefully. Gotta love a muse who thinks before he speaks. But his thinking is stretching out a long time.

“Moose? What else?”

Moose jerks up from the fins he had been staring at. “What else about what?”

“About the new story?” I tap the pen on the pad.

“Oh, that’s it. Murder at the Bigfoot Convention set at the Physics Café.”

“Can you fill me in on the details? Just a broad outline. Who’s doing the killing? Who’s getting killed? Who’s solving the mystery?”

Moose furrows his brows. Gee, I didn’t know he could do that.

“I don’t know. I’m just your inspiration. Have you forgotten how our relationship works? I inspire, you write.”

I sigh. “You could help a writer out here—”

He shakes his head. “I come up with the brilliant ideas, you implement them. You develop a fascinating plot, you give the characters life. Before you know it, they’ll be jumping off the page.”

“Well…thanks. That’s quite a compliment.

“Well, I gotta go.” He rises from the wingback. “I’ve never been snorkeling before.” He crosses the room to the door.

“But wait…surely you’re coming back. Giving me more inspiration.”

“Quit calling me Shirley. And I’ll be back.” He shrugs. “Not sure when.”

“You’re going to renew yourself, right? Renew your imagination. Soaking up new ideas while you’re underwater? So you come back reinvigorated? Right? Snorkeling is a metaphor for life? Right?”

“Are you serious?” He places a hoof on the door handle. “I’m going snorkeling—that’s all. Not all of my activities have a deeper meaning.” He sighs. “Sometimes, Terry, a cigar is just a cigar.”

He opens the door, and raises a hoof. “Tata!”

31 Jan 25

“Kerplunking” as a metaphor for our lives

“I’ve got it,” I say to myself, as I type furiously on my current work in progress. Stuck at 50,000 words for more than a week, I’ve been struggling to pull the manuscript together.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

My hands freeze over the keyboard, my concentration broken. Moose, my undependable, unreliable muse, is in the doorway, coffee cup in hoof. I’m not sure how he does it—hold the cup with his hoof.

“Where in blue blazes have you been all week? I’ve needed you.”

“Easy there. I’ve been busy.” He sits on the wingback chair by my desk.

I narrow my eyes. “What’s that hard hat on your head?”

“What hard hat?” He reaches for the top of his head, as if he’s forgotten he’s wearing a hard hat with a light on it, just like the kind…no, it couldn’t be.

“Oh, this hard hat? Do you like the light?” He switches it on.

“Yeah, that. What gives?” I’m sure whatever I was writing prior to his grand entrance has flown from my brain. Resistance is futile.

“I’m going kerplunking later.” He nods.

“Kerplunking?” I struggle not to smile. “What’s kerplunking?”

“Kerplunking. Exploring caves. You know the quintessential metaphor for exploring your inner self, digging deep within to find what you’re made of.”

He smiles, as if he’s waiting for my reaction. “I thought it would add depth to our prose.”

“Our prose? And the word is spelunking. You’re going spelunking.”

“Yeah, that.” Can moose blush? Because it looks like he’s blushing.

“Well, good for you. But what’s your idea this time?” I still haven’t accomplished much with the Christmas story he gave me. But I haven’t tossed it either.

He nods toward the laptop.

“No,” I say. My muscles tense. “No, it is not about my work in progress. You’re not going to change something.” I throw my hands up.

“Hear me out on this.” He sets the mug down. “What if you change the restaurant owner’s name from Adele to Suzanne? I think it would add a bit of pizzazz.” He splays his hooves as if he’s doing jazz hands.

I’m not so sure of the pizzazz, but I’d been thinking about. I have my own reasons for changing the name. “Okay, that sounds reasonable.” I retrieve my pen and write a note on my pad. I turn my attention back to Moose, who’s now totally engrossed in turning the light on his hard hat on and off, as if he’s sending a message.

“Good,” I say, “so we’re done here? I’ve got to get back to writing. I’ve just had a break—”

“Then Suzanne interacts more with your characters. Right? Because there’s gotta be a reason they’re saving her restaurant. I mean you don’t expect strangers to do something like that out of the blue.” He’s referring to my recently added subplot.

“But that would mean I have to go back and change every scene she’s in.  And there are quite a few. And I have to fit those changes around what I’ve already written, so I don’t lose the main plot.”

“Yup.” He nods. He stares into my eye. Oh, God. It’s a done deal.

“Okay, it makes sense. I’ll rewrite all those scenes.” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Hey, by the way.” He picks up the mug. “You got any cookies to go with this coffee?”

I know I’m going to regret this. “Yeah, in the pantry. Help yourself.”

He jumps up and leaves the room. It’s my chance to start working on the changes. Easiest is the name change. I haven’t gotten far when Moose returns.

“I helped myself to another cup of coffee.” He raises the hoof with the mug. “And these cookies,”—he raises the other hoof holding three Oreos— “are amazing. Who knew Oreo made megastuff.”

He chomps on one. I go back to work. For a few moments, the only sound I hear is his chewing. Then…

“Now, you know that scene where everyone is talking about saving the restaurant?” He sips his coffee.

I groan. “You do know I’m in the middle of making your earlier changes?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He tosses another cookie down his throat.

“Well, we need to ramp up the tension between Murphy and Noah. So we’re going to move that scene up a couple of pages. You know, place it in the middle of their separation—where they’re still angry with each other. That would make the scene less boring.”

“Boring?” You think the scene is boring?”

My muse shrugs. “Can you imagine the dialogue you can get? And the mixed emotions? Murphy could be thinking…”

“All right.” I sigh. Maybe it is boring. And it does sound like a good idea. “But that would require a total rewriting of that scene.”

“Yep, it would.” He takes a long gulp of coffee. “But you’re rewriting those other scenes anyway. What’s one more?”

Before I can answer, he rises. “Well, I hope our conversation has given you something to think about. I think it’ll help. Don’t you?”

“Wait. Aren’t you going to stick around? I mean, I need your help here. You’re the one who comes up with—”

“Nope. You can take it from there. I’ve got an appointment with a cave. You know, I do the heavy lifting in this relationship. I’m going to crawl through grottoes, I’m going to check out stalagmites. I’m searching for our inner depth, remember?”

He steps toward the door. “Remember, kerplunking is a metaphor for our lives. I’m digging deep so you can benefit. Tallyho.”

“It’s spelunking,” I remind him, as a stare at my manuscript.

24 Jan 25

When the 3 am idea strikes

I may be mistaken. Or I may be dreaming. But it feels as if someone is prying my eyes open. Someone or something is tugging at my eyelids. Then I hear the voice. That very familiar voice.

“I’ve got an idea. A brilliant idea for a story.” I open one eye. Moose, my writing muse, scrutinizes it, as he hovers over me.

“No, wait! Better yet! It’s an incredibly imaginative idea for a series. There’s no telling how many books you can get out of this.”

He examines my eye from several angles. “Are you in there?”

I’m barely in there.“What time is it?” I slowly bring my hands to my forehead, rubbing it, ending with circular massages at my temples. I finally gain the courage to open both eyes.

Moose leans over toward the nightstand. “Three am,” he says a bit too brightly.

“Can’t this idea wait until, uhm, maybe 8 am?” But I know the answer. This isn’t the first time my muse has nudged me awake to announce his ideas. To be honest, usually, they are good ideas. Brilliant? Well, okay, I’ll hand it to Moose, occasionally.

“So what’s this story about?” I pull myself up into a sitting position and grab the notebook on the nightstand, along with the pen. I told you he’s done this before. My pen is poised over a blank page.

Moose sits on the edge of my bed. That’s when I spot it. “What are you wearing?”

“This?” he asks innocently, making a Vanna White gesture over her garb.

“Yes, that.” It’s the only thing on his moose’s body. And it’s odd. “Is that a…tutu?”

He has a yellow, frilly fabric around his waist. When he sat, the layered edges popped up.

“It is!” He stands, then pirouettes. He has amazing balance for an animal his size. “Do you like it?”

“Why? Why are you wearing a tutu? At three”—I check the clock—“ten in the friggin’ morning?” My patience is running low.

“Because I was dancing.” He pliés.

 “Of course. Silly of me to ask.” I’m very aware that it’s an ungodly hour, I was awakened from a good dream, and my only desire is to get back to sleep. “So what’s this idea that can’t wait till the sun rises?”

“Okay.” He sits on the edge of the bed. There’s that spark in his eye. “So you know how Santa makes toys?”

No inspirational revelation there. I nod. Did I say my patience is getting short?

“What does he do with the leftovers? I mean, how does Santa know exactly how many toys to make?”

“Well he keeps a list,” I say. “And he just knows.”

“You’re not getting it. What if Santa had an overstock? What would he do with them? You know, Mrs. Claus wouldn’t want them cluttering up her house, would she? I see divorce papers in Nick’s future if that happened.”

Finally, it hits me. I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Brilliant. You’re right.” I take furious notes.

“And you know, Santa isn’t the only one with magic. Mrs. Claus has a bit of undiscovered magic as well.”

“Oh. My. God. She does. That’s it.” I stop writing.

Moose grins. “I told you it was brilliant.”

“You did.” I write down the ideas that come to me.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to tell you.” Moose glances at the clock. “It’s already 3:30! I’m late for my ballet lesson. Toodles,” he says as he chasses out the bedroom door.

“Thank you!” I call after him. I put the notebook and pen back on the nightstand. And get cozy in bed.

Such a good idea. I’m creating the setting and characters as I finally get back to sleep.

The next morning, I’m ready to start this story. I make myself coffee, boot up the computer, and retrieve the notebook from the nightstand.

As I settle in, I try to read my handwriting. I can make barely make it out. No worries, though, I know how this story is going.

I sip my coffee as I call up a new document. And I stare at the page. How am I even going to start this? Who do I introduce first? How do I describe the location?

“Moose, I need your help!” I call out into what feels like the void.

No answer. “Moose, I really could use your assistance. It’s about the idea you gave me last night.”

Still no answer. I’m about to call a third time when I hear splashing. What? Did I leave the shower on?

I jump out of the chair and sprint to the bathroom. I open the door I don’t remember closing…

Moose is in the bathtub surrounded by a gazillion bubbles, reading a book. A towel hangs from each of his antlers. He glances up at me. “How’s the writing going?” Moose asks he reaches for a fluted glass.

“Is that champagne?” My hands are on my hips.

“Yes, I’m celebrating.” He sips some, then replaces it on the edge of the tub. “I’ve moved up a grade in my ballet lessons.”

“That’s great. But,” —I take a deep breath, trying not to show my irritation— “I’m trying to write that story idea you gave me last night. I could use your help.”

“Oh, that?” He waves a hoof. “Can’t help you right now. I’m reading. You know digging deep into that well of inspiration by collecting ideas, experiencing the variety.” He glances up at me, his glasses low on his muzzle. “But, when I’m done maybe we can set a date, a time…you know to discuss it.”