The Maine Events by Rodney Riesel (spanish books to read .TXT) 📗

Mya nodded.

“Even though it's probably not true, I wish you hadn't ofsaid anything. Now that's what I'm going to think about all night, forchrissakes. Rose even told me to bring my dog with me.”

“That's kinky.”

Allen sighed.

“I bet Paul's wife wants to take a run at you,” Mya joked.“Younger, handsome semi-famous writer. I bet she—”

“So, you think I'm handsome.”

“But only semi-famous.”

“Here's those drinks,” said Justine.

“Thank you,” Mya said.

“Thanks,” said Allen.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“I think that just about does it,” Allen said.

Justine smiled and walked away.

Mya noticed Allen tying a plastic bib around his neck. Itwas emblazoned with a graphic of a cartoon lobster and the slogan Let's Get Crackin'. “Surely you’re notgoing to wear that thing—they're mainly for the tourists,” she said. “You lookridiculous.”

“Says you. Besides, I am a tourist. And I quit worryingabout how I look to other people a long time ago.”

“You certainly march to the beat of a different drummer.”

“I march to the beat of an entire drumline,” Allen said.

Allen forgot about minding his table manners, which isimpossible while ripping a lobster apart with your bare hands. First, hegrabbed the lobster's body with one hand and the tail in the other and twistedin opposite directions to break the tail off. He crushed the tail in his handand dug out the biggest hunk of meat with his fingers, dunked it in the cup ofmelted butter, and popped it in his mouth.

“Oh my God,” he said. “This is so good. It's been at leastfive years since I've eaten a lobster.”

“About three weeks for me,” said Mya.

“It never ceases to amaze me that something folks call thecockroach of the sea can taste this good.”

Mya curled her lip. “Well, that's certainlyappetizing.”

Allen next tackled the claws. He wrenched one loose andtried to crack it with the lobster cracker. When that didn't work, he viciouslyattacked it with the wooden mallet. The other guests turned to witness thespectacle. Finally the appendage shattered. Seeing he was the center ofattention, Allen made an elaborate show of daintily removing his prize with anoyster fork—pinky extended, of course.

A clump of lobster meat sat untouched on Mya's oyster fork,poised halfway between her hand and her gaping mouth.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Mya said. “Now I see why you needed the bib.Watching you eat is more entertaining than feeding time at the zoo.”

Allen wiped his dripping hands on the bib. “Yeah, I'm ananimal. I'm not even halfway through this thing, and I'm already wishing I hadof gotten two of them.”

Mya laughed. “I think that every time.”

Allen and Mya continued eating, and as they ate, theytalked. Mya asked about Allen's writing. She asked all of the usual questions.Why did you get into writing? How do you come up with your story lines? Are thecharacters based on real people? Did you always want to be a writer? As shewent down through the mental list of questions, Allen easily answered each one,because he'd answered them all before. Finally, she asked a question that not alot of people had asked in the past. It was a question that Allen had onlyanswered honestly one other time, and that was to his deceased wife.

“What would you say is the hardest part about being awriter?” Mya asked.

Allen stared at her for a second, biting a small piece ofdry skin on his lower lip. “The hardest part about writing is the voices.”

“Voices? You mean, in your head?”

Allen nodded. “Yes,” he said. “What people who don't writedon't understand, is that the characters conversations are going on inside yourhead before you ever sit down to write. Ever see a Howard Hawks movie? No?Well, the characters are always talking over each other, just like in reallife. That's how it is in my head, it's enough to drive you crazy. But when youdo start to write, and the characters' distinct personalities and voices startto develop, that's when the magic happens. You sift through those overlappingconversations, looking for just the right words. The ones that say exactly whatyou want to say. The words that you hope will make your readers feel what youwant them to feel. If the story is sad, you want them to be sad. If it's funny,you want them to laugh, or at least smile. If they're not sad, or they don'tlaugh, then you've failed them. When an author reaches a certain level ofsuccess, he or she knows that at any given time, somewhere in the world,someone could be reading one of their books. This creates a constant feeling ofpressure to entertain. And the voices in your head, they don't just go away atthe end of the day when you stop writing.”

“Wow,” Mya said, “you don't make writing sound fun at all.”

Allen laughed. “It's a lot of fun. I wouldn't trade what Ido with anyone.”

“I guess that makes you a glutton for punishment.”

“Maybe it does, but when I get that email or direct messagefrom someone telling me how much they enjoyed my book, it's all worth it. Ihave some of the greatest fans in the world. I owe each and every one of themmy life. I'll never be able to pay any of them back for what they've done forme.”

“Maybe your writing is all the payback they need.”

Allen shrugged. “Maybe.”

Justine stopped by. She saw the glaze of butter and lobsterjuices on Allen's face and the carnage on his bib, and grinned. “Somebody camehungry, I see. Save room for dessert, Godzilla?”

Allen scooted back in his chair and happily patted hisbelly. “Does that answer your question?”

Justine frowned, then looked at Mya. “How 'bout you, miss?The Mile High Banana Cream Pie is really tasty.”

“I know, I've had it before. But I'm stuffed too.”

“Suit yourself.” Justine set the leather bill holder on thetable. “Be back in a few.”

Mya drank the last of her water, and Allen downed theremainder of his margarita. He pulled out his money clip and removed a creditcard.

“I'm paying for this,” Mya informed him.

“That's not going to happen,” Allen said. He glanced at thebill, then stuck his credit card in the holder along with cash