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Back In Pursuit of Happiness
Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. Epilogue
  42. Acknowledgments
  43. More from Freya Kennedy
  44. About the Author
  45. About Boldwood Books

But none of them were here. She was on her own and she knew that if she ever wanted to be a writer, she knew she only had one option: to stay right where she was and wait for Ewan’s feedback. For better or worse. And not – under any circumstances – try to kiss him.

24

Et

Jo didn’t order room service. Ordering room service made her feel awkward. She never knew if she was supposed to tip, and if she was supposed to tip, she had no euros in her purse anyway. She did have seventy-five pence in sterling, but she’d rather tip nothing than insult someone with that paltry amount.

She felt the need to get some fresh air. The glass of wine had hit her harder than normal, and she still felt fuzzy-headed. Admittedly, she thought, that could be down to Ewan’s critique of her work. He’d asked her questions as if she knew what she was doing. Questions about pacing and plotting, and characters and metaphors. Jo had done her best to bluff it, but the truth was she just wrote what she wanted to write. She didn’t overthink it – unlike every other aspect of her life. She sat down and let the words flow. Yes, occasionally she would edit a piece to death to find a rhythm to a sentence that made her feel giddy inside, and she’d admit that she got a bit crazy when she found exactly the right word to capture what she was trying to say. She definitely made sure her stories had a solid beginning, middle and end, but the rest?

There was no thinking about symbolism when she described the dry heat of the sun, how it yellowed the grass and made everything slow down, as if everyone was melting like thick tar on the road. She just closed her eyes and remembered what those hot days felt like, how they nipped at all her senses, and then she wrote. Did that mean she had been doing it all wrong?

Ewan had talked Jo through structure. He told her all stories, books and movies had a distinct midpoint where something very important happens. She’d scoffed at first, but when he’d listed example after example, including Clara’s favourite movie of all time, The Princess Bride, she’d begun to wonder how on earth she was able to put pen to paper when she knew none of this stuff. She never felt more as if she was holidaying in someone else’s life.