pocketcrab
{✏️}: “It’s really no trouble at all.” Elliott assured with a smile, shifting the books comfortably in his arms. He was no stranger to checking out a few too many of the things, himself. The local libraries couldn’t stock new books fast enough for the man during his time in the city.
The poor doctor’s shamefaced explanations managed to tug a laugh from deep within the writer’s chest, genuine and far from hostile, “No need for promises, doctor. I’m surprised that most of our library’s books are not currently occupying my cabin.”
As Elliott walked briskly alongside the other, he couldn’t help but snoop a little through the stack of tomes in his arms. A curious brow quirked.
“Your taste in literature is unexpected, if I may say so.” he chuckled once more, “I’ve read quite a few of these titles, myself.”
Elliott’s laughter is contagious, and Harvey found himself chuckling a little. “ Oh thank goodness! I’m glad I’m not the only one who enjoys the genre. Is it true that there’s a particular formula for the romance novels? “
He’d heard someone grumbling years ago about how every one of these paper-backed stories followed the same structure: first kiss, first erotic scene – they all had to happen in a certain number of pages, or readers would supposedly get bored. While Harvey had seen a few of these, it thankfully wasn’t too many to turn him away from his little guilty pleasure. It was nice to find new twists in the typical narrative, anyways.
“ Ah, which was your favorite? I’ll know where to start. “ Harvey’s hand hesitated on the door to his apartment. Sheepishly he looked back at Elliott. “ You don’t mind dogs, do you? If I open the door now, Amelia might burst out to kiss-attack you. “
{✏️}: “I suppose that may be true for some.” Elliott admitted, “Though if an author is truly committed to their work, their passion will always shine through, formulaic or not.”
As a writer, Elliott was no stranger to those who treated the art as they may any other job; follow the guidelines set to produce a consumable product in a convenient amount of time. He believed, however, that good literature could not be rushed or broken down into such a restrictive formula. Just as any artist, an author needed space to breathe, to tend to their masterpiece until it bloomed. Hard work takes time, and art is hard work.
“This one, without question.” slipping one of the books out from under the small pile in his arms, Elliott lovingly turned it over in order to skim the synopsis, “I found it incredibly difficult to put this one down. I believe I finished it the day I brought it home, if I recall correctly.”
At the mention of the other’s dog, the man felt an icy grip take hold of his chest. He froze, expression morphing from friendly smiles into unease in moments. He swallowed hard, “I... would prefer to avoid that, if I can.”









