By Ava March
“It’s the third house from the end. Left side. The white one.” As if that last bit was all that helpful. Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Most every house on his street resembled his own - a small white bungalow built around 1950.
“I know. I remember.”
Alex glanced to Mark. The man had only been to his house once. A handful of hours ago to pick him up, and it was dark now. He couldn’t help but be impressed.
Mark turned into his driveway and put the pickup truck in park. Without the noise from the street, Alex could hear the song that played on the radio. Billie Holiday’s scratchy voice seeped from the speakers in a low melodic rhythm. Old jazz? Interesting. He would have never guessed Mark was into it, but now, well, it seemed to fit him as perfectly as the navy polo that stretched across the broad width of his chest.
Discreetly rubbing his damp palms on his thighs, Alex shifted in the passenger seat and looked out the window. The outdoor light he’d flicked on right before leaving the house illuminated his front door. Well, he was officially home. Should he just get out of the truck, or did Mark want to kiss him? Or maybe he wasn’t really interested in him? Mark hadn’t said a word since they had left the movie theatre parking lot. Hell, Alex hated first dates. Truth be told, he sucked at them. Especially if he was attracted to the guy. Nerves clashing with the attraction heating his skin, tying his tongue into knots. Two hours at the theatre sitting next to Mark, so close every breath held a light, teasing hint of his cologne and every move brought some part of Alex’s body brushing against his…
“I had a nice evening.”
Alex swallowed, trying to find his voice, and looked to Mark whose shoulders were turned slightly toward him, left wrist resting casually on the steering wheel. “Yeah, me, too.”
Breath held and pressing down on his thigh to keep his leg from jittering, he waited as Mark’s gaze swept over his face. If he could just get past the first couple of dates. Past that awkward place where every word, every move, could be the wrong one. Constantly second guessing himself was damn tiring. He liked Mark, at least what he knew of him so far, and he was definitely attracted to him. He had a thing for strong, dark haired men and Mark, even with his good looks, didn’t seem to be an arrogant ass. A definite plus.
The song faded, offering a brief moment of silence before another began.
And then it occurred to him. He’s waiting for you to get out of the truck, idiot.
Disappointment and embarrassment washed over him. “Thanks for the movie,” he mumbled, as he reached for the lever on the door.
“Yeah?” he said, turning back to Mark. But the word was lost in his throat as warm lips met his.
Contemporaries. I love to read them. Most of my favorite of favorite books are contemporary m/m romances. But as much as I love them, I simply cannot write them. My voice just isn’t suited to them.
It’s odd. It’s not like I talk like a woman from Regency England in everyday life. But if I tried to write a contemporary, my heroes would come out sounding like stuffy old men (did you notice how there isn’t much dialogue in my short little scene? - yeah, that was on purpose *g*). It’s like my muse has one track - historical - and that’s all it can do. You’d think with the amount of contemporaries I have read, that some of it would have sunk into the writing part of my head. But nope.
I tried once, a couple years ago, to start a contemporary. The idea for the scene was right there, I could see it playing out in my head, but damn if it wouldn’t go down onto the page. Seriously. I couldn’t even get past page one. Very frustrating exercise in futility.
And that little scene above? Took me two nights to write.
I’ve come to accept that just because I love to read something doesn’t mean that I can write it. It’s like the time I tried to learn how to play the violin. I bought one, practiced every night for like a year, and…damn I sucked. Will power can only go so far. At some point talent has to kick in, and like with my violin (that’s really pretty and has a beautiful rich tone…when my hubby plays it, that is), the talent for contemporaries just isn’t there for me.
Fortunately, I love historicals, too. Love my men in their stark white cravats and embroidered silk waistcoats. Love how they are mindful of the rules of proper decorum, but are very willing to throw the rules aside when behind closed doors. Still, it would be nice if I could write a book someday where my heroes could hold hands in public. Ah well, since that time will never come, I’ll get my hand-holding fix from books written by authors who have that talent to translate today onto the page.
Authors like Devon Rhodes. :D A huge thanks goes out to her for the invitation to guest post on Oh Get A Grip! *muwh* She knows I love her ;)
From Afar - Samhain/Feb 2009
Convincing Arthur - Loose Id
M/M Erotic Romance…in the Regency Era