#RomanticFridayWriters - Challenge No 33 - My Vignette - I Love You Because...

Hello there!

Does reading books inspire you? Of course it does. I've been reading Tony Davis' 'F. Scott, Ernest and Me,' a rollicking tale of an Aussie writer heading to Paris to write his Great Australian Novel, but ends up writing about Paris instead. Ah, that Grande Dame is a seductress...Anyhow, I thought, great idea for the current RomanticFridayWriter prompt - I Love You Because. I could just imagine a girlfriend languishing while the Great Unpublished Novelist heads off to the delights of Paris without a moment's consideration for her. Therein lies my little tale, vignette, whatever. I hope you enjoy it...

While His Guitar Gently Weeps

He lay in the hammock strumming his guitar, the notes weeping to the ground.

‘I love you, Ernest,’ Zora whispered from where she lay under the tree, watching his foot dancing in the air. 

Regret smote his heart, but he was determined to remain steadfast.

‘I must go, my darling Zora. I must write my novel, my magnum opus.’

‘Plenty of people write novels in Australia, my darling, at least one or two. Think Peter Carey and er, well, why can’t you stay?’

She caught his foot and kissed it, washing it with her tears.

Discordant notes crashed around her. She jerked upright, banging her head on his bottom. ‘Tim Winton! He’s the other one!’

‘You temptress. You would have me stay, but I must go forth to where the giants of twentieth-century literature have gone before me. I must find my true voice in the city where Ernest found his and F. Scott wrote between drinks.’

Happy notes plunked on the air.

‘Are you going to live in a garret and starve? Will you find inspiration in the towers, arches, domes and flying buttresses?’

‘I’m not approaching my novel from a standing start, my sweet Zora. I’ll have you know I had a poem published in a literary anthology once, and a major publisher showed interest when I pitched my YA vampire idea just five years ago. I framed the note from the editor.’

‘But Ernest, that’s hardly in the realm of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. They were prolific! You’re such a dreamer. I fear you will be greatly disappointed. And the money it will cost! Where’s that coming from?’

‘Da…da…da…deah,’ he sang. ‘I’ve sold the music shop.’

‘What! What about me? I’m the manager! Why?’

‘Because it was keeping me from my higher ambition. I awarded myself an arts grant. With my monumental literary idea, I’ll tackle the task of producing something that will outlive me, that will fly beyond the towers, the arches, the domes and flying buttresses.’ He tinkled the strings.

‘Ernest, all you have in common with Hemingway is his Christian name. I blame your parents for putting ideas of literary grandeur in your head at birth. I love you because you’re you!’

‘It’s going to be a tour de force, my pièce de résistance, a work of greatness. Just you wait and see…’

He lay in the hammock strumming the guitar, the notes laughing to the skies.

 ©DeniseCovey2012

WORD COUNT: 407
FCA - Full Critique Acceptable.

Click on the names below to read more stories and poems.