One day he’s gorgeous. Brings me coffee in bed. Reads Raymond Chandler out loud while I drink my coffee. Says I’m beautiful when I look like a walnut with legs. And means it. Then the next minute he’s flirting with some underage bimbo and saying he’d like to move to Moscow.
If my book were a man, he’d be THAT man. A few weeks ago I’d given up on him for good — promised myself I’d find a nice friendly accountant and forget those perfect moments of transcendent bliss.
But just now, he’s adorable. Funny, clever, and attentive. Can’t put a foot wrong. I love him madly madly madly.
He’s a reformed character, my lovely handsome brilliant book. Though if he so much as mentions Moscow, he’s a dead man.
I have some memories of a guy like that….(the one that your girlfriends flirt with behind your back and then tell you that he’s strange and you can do better)
enjoy ur romance
Yup. Know that one.
This sounds like every relationship I’ve ever been in.
Good times!
my novel left for moscow last week. what to do?
you must read libba bray’s blog on similar.
Fantastic blog from Libba! Thanks for nudging me in the direction….