Shan: Look, I know you want to be a strong heroine, but you can’t do everything. We might as well have Gallagher in a pink tu-tu prancing through the background scenery.

Carmen: When Alex and Grace were in trouble you had me hit my head on the car like I’m some kind of rookie drunken monkey running amok, and then with Tony and Charlotte you sat me out entirely. I feel like I’ve got something to prove here.

Shan: A rookie drunken monkey running amok? So do the rookies aspire to be veteran drunken monkeys running amok or what?

Carmen: I don’t need Gallagher to save me.

Shan: You know, I wanted to open this book with you dying. I’ve had trouble connecting with you and the only thing that has saved your life is the fact I know Gallagher, and he wouldn’t come back from that soon enough to have his own HEA. While it wouldn’t be as rule-breaking as killing off one half of an already-HEA’d couple, it didn’t seem right. That could change.

Carmen: I thought you wanted me to kick some ass.

Shan: Yes, but not singlehandedly all the ass. I need you to give me something to work with—some vulnerability or flaw…something that gives me a connection with you.

Carmen: For years I’ve been sad my line of work doesn’t let me have long, beautiful nails I can paint Calypso Coral.

Shan: :bang:

Gallagher: I’m pretty secure in my manhood and under the right circumstances could pull off a pink tu-tu, but I never prance. Ever.

Shan: Not if I do it in Carmen’s POV. She doesn’t fly a helicopter, so I can say things like “stick thingie” and “a bunch of switches”.

Gallagher: That’s cheating. So…you uncrashed the jet?

Shan: Yup. I highlighted it, cut it, and then copied it into the Cut File.

Gallagher: What the hell’s a Cut File?

Shan: It’s where I paste any words I cut from a story in case I need to change it back.

Gallagher: So there’s like this alternative universe where I’m crashing planes and sticking a gun in Rossi’s face?

Shan: Yes, but I’m horribly disorganized and only have one Cut File, so there’s also a sheriff shooting a bank robber and an alien menage scene you might want to look away from. Oh, and the scene from 72 Hours where you got killed is still in there, too.

Gallagher: That sucked. How ’bout you delete that?

Shan: How ’bout you get on board with the assassination scene choreography and stop trying to repel out of the chopper, and then I’ll delete that scene, k?

Gallagher: I’m not killing that rat bastard from a distance, babe. I’m doing it close up and personal.

Shan: No, you’re not. Doesn’t work with the plot.

Gallagher: It’s my plot.

Shan: :eyebrow:

Becky: It’s Miss Becky, you horse’s ass.

Adam: Like hell it is!

Adam: *dodges shoe*

Shan: Rebecca—*ducks*—Becky, I really need you to confess your undying love for Adam now.

Becky: To quote the eloquent ass in question, like hell I will!

Shan: Look, I know it’s difficult for you two because I write scenes out of order, but—

Adam: Difficult? Damnation, woman, you had us bouncin’ the bedsprings before we’d even had a decent conversation, then I was shooting people—which I don’t mind, as a rule—but I didn’t even make their acquaintance until after I killed them. I don’t know why y’all go on about the rum, but I can sure as shootin’ tell you why the whiskey’s gone.

Shan: Keep whining and I’ll pull a Danielle Steel and kill you off, then Rebecca—*ducks*—Becky can bounce the bedsprings with somebody else.

Adam: Like hell she can!

Shan: See, he loves you. If you could just admit you love him, too, I can go make lunch.

Becky: *hardheaded silence*

Shan: *sigh I’m going to see if the tall kid’s done with HP7 yet. It’s not too late to make you guys dead bodies in the next DG book, you know.

Grace: Alex does the baking now. And what do you expect? You crashed the plane practically in my back yard.

Shan: And let me guess—Danny’s with your parents?

Grace: They took him to Disney for a week.

Shan: How convenient. It’s bad enough you showed up in On the Edge, but—

Grace: Well, there was that little thing where you, oh…I don’t know—blew up my husband?

Shan: Fine, you grudge-holding bitch. You can show up in the beginning, but you’re not getting on the plane to the as-yet-unnamed European country with them.

Grace: Can’t. You crashed the plane.

Shan: Oh…dammit.

Grace: You’re just a regular plothole farmer now, huh?

Shan: You know, I don’t have this problem with Adam and Becky.

Grace: Yeah, but his horse is ugly.

Wait. Do you hear that? How am I supposed to think with all that racket?

Shan: That’s Gallagher shouting again. He’s still stuck down in that plot hole.

Adam: I could shoot him.

Ez: That would take care of the plot hole problem.

Shan: No, you can’t shoot him.

Adam: Hellfire, woman. You ain’t let me shoot a single soul yet.

Ez: At least you had sex. Gallagher’s stuck in a hole.

Adam: About that. I don’t reckon it’s right to make love to a woman before we’ve even had a decent conversation.

Ez: How very un-alpha of you.

Shan: Shut up, Ezmerelda. I told you, Adam, we write scenes out of order.

Adam: Well, it addles a man’s brain being jerked around like that.

Gallagher: :censor: :censor: :censor:ing :censor:

Shan: :bang:

Ez: I’m supposed to be recapping our week, here, people.

Shan: This pretty much was our week.

Gallagher: :censor:

Adam: :cowboy: ]]> http://shannonstacey.com/2007/07/ezmereldas-week-in-review-76/feed/ 0 http://shannonstacey.com/2007/06/conversation-with-gallagher/ http://shannonstacey.com/2007/06/conversation-with-gallagher/#comments Wed, 06 Jun 2007 15:32:00 +0000 Shannon http://shannonstacey.com/2007/06/06/conversation-with-gallagher/ (AKA: current Devlin Group pain in the ass)

Gallagher: Miss me, babe?

Me: Oh yes, ever so desperately.

Gallagher: Even though you’re working on other stuff, you’ve been thinking about me a lot lately. Makes me all hot and bothered.

Me: Back the ego truck up. See, the shipwreck part isn’t enough to carry the whole book. It needs to fall within a bigger plot.

Gallagher: Shipwrecked? I thought the plane crashed.

Me: It does, but jetwrecked doesn’t do it for me, so I call it shipwrecked in my head.

Gallagher: In your head is the only thing on the planet that scares me. Other than telling Charlotte we totaled the Bombardier.

Me: Tony can break it to her. We have bigger problems, like finding you a plot.

Gallagher: Here’s the thing—in 72 Hours I took a backseat to Alex, which is cool since he runs the joint, but in On the Edge I was stuck on admin duty. I won’t want any Sally shit in my book.

Me: No Sally shit. Making a post-it note of that.

Gallagher: I’m serious. I wanna blow some shit up.

Me: You get to blow some shit up, don’t worry. And you get to have sex and kill people. Plenty of manhood proving.

Gallagher: I don’t need to prove my manhood. Which is throbbing, by the way.

Me: Tell it to Carmen. Oh wait, you won’t tell her how you feel, will you? Sally.

Gallagher: Hey, babe, I’m a bad-ass.

Me: Yeah? Well, prove it, babe.

Me: Hello?

Strange man’s voice: Hello.

*pause that drags on*

Me: Who is this?

Strange man’s voice: (Tall kid).

*long pause while I, a victim of too much TV and too many thrillers, wonder in a panic why a grown man is pretending to be my little boy*

Strange man purporting to my 11-year-old: You forgot early release. I’m in the office.

He was only there 4 1/2 hours! Surely one can’t totally go through puberty during US History. He won’t even be twelve until July.

Dayum. (And yes, I will pay for forgetting early release for a long time. Years.)

We watch Jeopardy every night before the kids go to bed. The tall kid’s starting to hold his own. The short kid just parrots my answers, so when we’re right he gets the glory and when we’re wrong, I get the blame. Tonight there were several questions regarding authors, and the conversation went downhill from there…

Jeopardy: This author blah blah blah blah

Short kid: Who is Shannon Stacey?

(It wasn’t.)

A bit later…

Jeopardy: Author of blah blah blah blah, this person blah blah blah blah

Short kid: Who is Shannon Stacey?

(It wasn’t)

After Final Jeopardy…

Short kid: How come none of the authors were Shannon Stacey, Mama?

Tall kid: Because only Mom is Shannon Stacey, dork.

Short kid: But why isn’t Shannon Stacey ever the answer?

Me: Those are all really famous authors, honey.

Short kid: But you’re famous. You have a dot-com.

Tall kid: Those authors were all dead.

Short kid: Will you be a Jeopardy answer when you’re dead, Mama?

Me: You never know.

Short kid: I want to be famous before I’m dead, so I’m not going to be an author.

Eliza Jane: It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Shan: But there’s nothing at all in your background to suggest you can wield a shotgun like Annie Freakin’ Oakley. You’d be more apt to throw yourself in front of the man and talk him to death.

Eliza Jane: But I’d lose that bit of dialogue I say when I’m threatening him with it. It’s such a perfect line.

Shan: Yeah, if you’re Bruce Willis.

Eliza Jane: Which I’m not.

Will: And thank the Maker for that.

Shan: Shut up. You don’t even know who that is. You don’t have a TV.

Will: No, but I for damn sure ain’t never met a pretty lady by the name of Bruce, I know that much.

Shan: We’re digressing. What are we going to do about the shotgun and Eliza Jane’s line?

Will: Well, I reckon it’s time to kill that darlin’, uh…darlin’.

Shan: And that’s another thing—why couldn’t you call her sweetheart or hummingbird or something so I wouldn’t have to deal with that damn apostrophe?

Will: It’s either darlin’ or Lizzie.

Shan: Ugh. Okay, so what are we going to do about this shotgun?

Eliza Jane: Maybe I could have a rolling pin, instead.

Will: Hell, that’s a fine idea. I’ve tasted her pies, and she’s a lot more apt to kill a man with her pie crusts than a shotgun.

Eliza Jane: The bad thing about being the town’s doctor is that you’ve got nobody to fix you up if I castrate you with this shotgun.

Shan: Okay, I think we need to lose the shotgun. Let’s find another way to make that scene work.

Will: She could throw her biscuits at him. Aw, hell. Put that down, Eliza Jane. You can’t just go around pointin’ a shotgun at a man’s balls, darlin’. The fright makes them shrivel right up, and then I won’t be able to do that thing you like—you know, that thing you told half the town about when you were trying to drink Joe Dunbarton under the table.

Eliza Jane: You do know how to hold a grudge, Will Martinson.

Will: Well, you try holdin’ your head up when your friends laugh themselves into a stupor every time they see you. Did you have to go and say…what you said?

Shan: You know what? I’m going to go scrub the kitchen floor. Let me know when you’re ready to work.

The Bitch Muse: Shakespeare? Listen, doll—even 1970′s maternity pants weren’t that much of a stretch.

Shan: You’re a cruel and fickle mistress.

The Bitch Muse: What do you expect? After the icky flu stuff and the icky tax staff—math for god’s sake—and your hour-long rant on the evils of the capital “U” yesterday, you expect me to be creative?

Shan: They’re teaching my eldest to type with only the right shift! That’s just wrong! Did you see the way his wrist curled all up when he showed me how to cap the “U”? I may not get NECAP testing or new math, but I sure as hell know how to type.

The Bitch Muse: You can’t even type your own name without backspacing at least once.

Shan: You know, there are a lot of writers who keep their muses in the basement from what I hear.

The Bitch Muse: I’m your muse. I already reside in the fifth circle of Hell, so a basement scaring me? Not so much.

Shan: Oh, like it’s that hard. All you have to do is vomit up a shitty first draft. I have to do the hard stuff.

The Bitch Muse: I thought we weren’t using the word “vomit” ever again.

Shan: Can we at least bang out a Thursday Thirteen?

The Bitch Muse: Sure! Thirteen reasons I wish I was Nora’s muse…

Shan: Never mind.