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The Writer's Life 8/7 - Preview

There will be an abbreviated session of the floating book shop today, then I'll be off to Jersey to celebrate the 14th birthday of my great niece/godchild Danielle. Meanwhile, here's a preview of the story I've been working on the past week. It's about 95% done. I used a few Italian terms. I'm not sure about the spelling of one, i sciarri, marital arguments. I'll have to ask my sister and oldest niece, Isabel, about it. I changed the title of the piece from Paradise Lost, already taken by John Milton, to Bad Form, mala figura, to use the Italian phrase:

Clarissa and Vinnie exited the theater holding hands. Vinnie’s eyes brightened as he took in the beauty of the summer night, the bustle of the Brooklyn street.

“That was the worst,” said Clarissa, miffed.

He chuckled. Her face tightened.

“How can you laugh? It’s not like movies are cheap anymore.”

“No risk, no reward.”

“The critics should be shot.”

He was surprised by her anger. In the six months they’d been dating, he’d never seen her like this. She’d been distant all evening. He was unsure what to do or say. They were silent as they walked to the car.

“Doesn’t anything ever bother you?” she finally blurted.

He looked at her face, which was remarkably unlined for 55. What genes she had. She could pass for 35. People said he had the body of a young man, but her beauty was timeless.

“One thing I’ve learned is that ninety-nine percent of life isn’t worth getting mad about.”

“You’re always so positive, so happy. It’s not normal.”

He stopped, sensing she wanted a fight. “I spent the first thirty-five years of my life being miserable, bewildered by the enormity of life, befuddled by the cruelty of humans to each other. I don’t want to go back there.”

“How come I never saw it? At least until….”

She didn’t have to complete the sentence. He knew what she’d been about to say - until she’d read his work, especially his first novel, which she’d just finished. She’d read his four books in reverse order at his suggestion.

“That is odd, although my unhappiness was inner, inside my head. Maybe it went on hold whenever your family visited ours and I knew I’d see you.”

She let go of his hand, folded her arms to her breasts and looked away. Damn, she was beautiful - a complexion to die for, rich dark hair, deep brown eyes. He loved the slight rasp in her voice, loved her good-natured laugh. How could he be anything but happy in her presence at this stage of his life, 62? He remembered how touched he’d been the first time, as a teenager, she came to his room uninvited. She seemed attracted to him and he did not understand why. Was it his muscles or because he was a college man? He was masculine, certainly not handsome. And she’d had a boyfriend, whom she eventually married. And he’d had a long undefined journey ahead of him before he dared think of marriage. He’d held his heart at bay. She was so old-fashioned he’d had to beg her to dance at a New Year’s Eve party at the house of a friend across the street. And it wasn’t even a slow dance. They did not touch at all. Her younger sister scolded her as if it were adultery.

Visit Vic’s sites:
Vic’s Third Novel (Print or Kindle):
Vic’s Website:
Vic’s Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle):
Vic’s 2nd Novel: Vic’s
1st Novel:
Vic’s Screenplay on Kindle:

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The first shipment
The Writer's Life 8/6 -

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Saturday, 22 June 2024