So I might be writing the most boring book ever. Or I might not be. It’s hard to tell at the moment.
While skimming scenes looking for the “xx” notations that are shorthand for “I don’t have a :censor: clue what goes here”, I noticed my characters are spending a lot of time standing around in the kitchen talking. On the surface this does not lend itself to compelling fiction, don’t you think? I mean, really, can’t they do something exciting like find out if the house even has a living room? Why the hell is everybody hanging out in the damn kitchen?
Clearly it’s my mother’s fault.
The kitchen table has always been the centerpiece of our family, I think. There was normal family stuff at the kitchen table, of course—meals, card playing, lectures and all that. But my mother and her friends always sat at the table to drink tea and visit. When my sister and I with guys in tow went to Missouri for my brother’s graduation, we spent most of the visit sitting at the kitchen table, talking for hours. When we go to my sister’s home now and my mom’s there, you’ll often find other birthday party guests hanging out in the living room, but we’ll all be sitting on the stools at her kitchen island. When I talk to my sister on the phone, I don’t plop down on the living room couch or curl up in the rocker in my bedroom. I lean against the kitchen counter with my coffee and chat. When my husband gets home from work each day, he sits at the kitchen table and I lean against the counter while we recap all the day’s news fit to share before moving on to whatever needs doing. The kitchen has been the heart of every home I’ve ever lived in, as I’m guessing it has for most women.
So perhaps it’s natural for me to set a contemporary romance containing some family drama in the kitchen. Thinking back, Travis and Gena from Forever Again had more than one conversation in the Inn’s kitchen.
But still, with the amount of coffee these people are knocking back, I’d expect the dialogue to be a little more lively.