BooksBarbecue
Back Just for December
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. PRAISE FOR LAURA JANE WILLIAMS
  3. Dedication
  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. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. Acknowledgements
  50. Publishing Credits
  51. Keep Reading …
  52. About the Author
  53. Fiction by the same author
  54. About the Publisher

In the end she burns off her nervous energy by walking to the hotel and grabbing her laptop. She takes it down to a coffee shop next door to the hotel, telling herself she’ll just reread the last eight thousand or so words she got down and then jot down a few ideas about moving forward. It’s a gorgeous little place, with two window seats and a real log-burning stove and the heavy smell of cinnamon in the air. She gives a self-conscious guten tag and orders a double-shot latte and a muffin, with a seltzer. There’s ten or so tables, half of which are occupied, all with groups of two or three people full of festive cheer, apparently catching up before the holidays.

She sets her stuff – her coat and bag – on the chair one side of the table, and then hops up into a window seat, legs crossed underneath her, laptop literally in her lap, so that she’s like the proverbial doggy in the window. Anyone who passes by can see her, but it makes her feel part of something, to write that way. She knows so many writers prefer the quiet of home or a rented office space, but Evie has long sought inspiration by being out and about in the world. The thing is: it’s always as an observer. She’s so seldom been a participant in her own life, lately. She looks down at her new tattoo. She makes a quiet promise to herself to participate more, to be spontaneous, to make leaps. This trip has opened up something in her, an appetite to try things, at the very least. To stop being so damned careful.

To stop being so damned careful.

Huh.

Evie opens up a new Word document instead of the file she’s been working on. On the first page she types: UNTITLED by EVIE BIRD, as is her tradition. She makes sure her settings are right – that it’s in Times New Roman, twelve point, double spaced, that the shortcuts for chapter headings are in place and the page numbers are in the bottom right-hand corner, just how she likes them. And then that’s what she types. She thinks of the women she met yesterday, and goes with that as a name, and that’s where she starts with her next novel:

Petra Egerton had decided to stop being so damned careful with her life.

She doesn’t stop writing for the next three and a half hours.

37

Evie