Quiet Laughter. Musings and stories on blurred cultural boundaries.
First: the MS. Did I mention editors are awesome? You missed that post, you say? Well, I'll say it again--sadly, not as well as Chuck Wendig--editors ROCK. And as a result of such rocking, my MS is undergoing some sorely needed reality checks.
REALITY CHECK TWO: Not only was the novel already long, but my editor also happened to drop the hint that there might be some "verbiage" that perhaps didn't add quite as much as I thought it did. 
The paper crackled as I folded it back. There, nestled in sand, sat three small shells, delicate and intricate.
“Michael, they’re beautiful! Where did you get them?”
“I found them,” he said, “and since I was thinking of you when I saw them, they’re yours.”
Acapulco beaches are notoriously empty of shells--finding these must have taken some serious luck.
He stopped just before we stepped outside. “I brought you something.”
He withdrew a little package from a pocket in his cargo pants. Brown paper tied with string.
"One of my favorite things," I said.
"Huh?"
Caro was easy to talk to. During the seven years Dan and I had been together, his mother and I had built a comfortable friendship. She was easier to talk to than my mother, and I looked forward to the day we’d be officially related. Yes, I’d be one of those lucky wives that had no issues with the infamous mother-in-law.
“You’re a little distracted today, m’ijita,” she said, her hand on mine.
I smiled, trying for a lightness I didn’t feel. “Am I?"
“No, you’re holding it upside-down,” Dan said, laughing, and turned the picture back around.
“What is this?” I pointed at the burner-vent thing.
“That, Lexie, is a stove.”
“What’s a stove doing in the bathroom?”
“The bathroom is off the kitchen--see the doorway here,” he pointed, “and the bathroom is through there.”
This was not the loft with high ceilings I’d pictured. It was bland, as impersonal as a hotel room and only slightly larger. The wallpaper looked crackly, old. Two tall and narrow windows let in subdued light.
The third picture showed what looked like a bathroom, but I was probably holding it upside down. I turned it, but the objects refused to fall into a recognizable layout--something in a corner looked suspiciously like a stove burner, but it had to be a ceiling vent of some kind.
But these snapshots I held in my hand didn’t belong in the dream. The first picture was taken outdoors, a 70’s cookie-cutter-style block of apartment buildings painted a faded brown. Could be yellow—it was hard to tell under the city grime. The area looked like a modern suburb; no haughty architecture, no history crumbling in the corners. No, only chain-link fences, meager vegetation and overcast skies.
With a straight face I flipped to the next one, the interior of the apartment.
“I got some pictures of the apartment.” Dan fished in his shirt pocket and produced some snapshots. “Now, don’t be disappointed,” he said, holding them back as I reached to take them. “It’s small, not even close to luxurious.”
I laughed, trying to pry his fingers from the photos. “Poverty is the mother of all art, right?"
'[...] the story simply becomes too cluttered and messy (kind of like our family room after I've been playing). And [...] After all of that playing and that mess, someone has to put it all away again (and it ain't me). With stories, those final chapters are now an issue of "putting it all away"[.]'
“Are you happy?” He put an arm around my shoulders.
“I am.”
“About the apartment in Italy?” The excitement that spilled into his voice was tinged with triumph. He was proud of himself for finding this apartment.
