𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐈𝐕

• 14 •

"You should keep asking your characters why," Keenan lifted the short stick to his mouth and released smoke, "Why does this person annoy this person," he glanced at Adil, "Why is this character always pissed," he glanced at Slater, "Why does this character like this person," at me, "Or why is this dude doing this and that, and everything," he shot a look at Jess.

"If his reason is shallow, you gotta make it weigh in internal monologue," he shrugged, "You need to justify their actions. Since mystery and crime's my flavor, this is must, but I believe that it should be applied to every other book as well," another puff, "Give them motive. Kill your darlings. Scenes must be relevant—even if it's just to show another character's attitude. Don't make them fuck on the first chapter without making their attraction weigh tons or unless it's the effect of something that happened beforehand or maybe it's a habit and that habit, of course, comes with a root," he shot a look at me, obviously referring to the project I chose.

"There are readers who won't buy your shallow bullshit. You don't even have to reveal motives right away—in fact, it keeps readers on their toes when you don't," Keenan butted the end of the cigar against the glass window behind him and discarded the stick on his desk. Then, he picked up his drink and took a long sip, having everyone worried for insides. My eyes fell to the chair in front of him. Keenan Travino fingered me on that damn seat just an hour ago.

"When people are reading, they turn into detectives and lawyers," he cocked his head to the side and regarded each one of us, me indifferently, "Drag the audience with clues. Give them enough for judgement. The best reader is the one with imagination," he narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, "You can give them a single line and they can form conspiracies from it. They can imagine a whole n'other scene from that little set of words."

He sat down on his chair and memories came rushing in. Fuck, I held my breath. Keenan put his feet on the table, "One line: I visit the cemetery every week," he said to everyone.

We stared and Keenan stared back, "Now why would I do that? I'm a man with poor temper, I disappeared for seven years, my house is in the middle of tall trees, I'm fucking lonely, I'm killing myself with alcohol and smoke," he downed his drink and cringed afterwards.

"Imagination. If it led you to think that a loved one tragically died," he shrugged again, "How did she die? Why was it tragic? Why this, why that. Of course, you'd read on until I reveal that I wasn't lying when I said that I had a daughter."

Adil and I exchanged looks, both quietly asking 'the fuck?'.

"That's only an example, Gia," spoke Keenan, "Calm your ass," he rolled his eyes. An example doesn't have to be made-up.

"Sometimes a powerful scene pops into your head and you wanna include it in your novel," he continued, yawned, and closed his eyes, "It's only then you think of the path that may lead to that scene happening. Make sure you don't turn it into a darling. You ask yourselves the hows and whys. It's fill in the blanks and make the whole paragraph work. It's fill in the holes and make the whole story work."

He opened his eyes again and waved weakly, "Shoo and go think about what I said while I correct the crap that Slater sent me," he gazed mockingly at Slater.

Slate scowled at the other man, but Keenan didn't mind. Instead, the latter put his glasses on, brought his feet down, and proceeded to do what he said: correct Slater's crap.