modern day novel writing

I Blame Timothy Hutton

Every time I watch the Nero Wolfe TV series from the early 2000s, I think about how Rex Stout intentionally wrote Nero and Archie as eternally the same age, but constantly adapting to culture as it changed from the 20s to the 70s. They didn’t ever get older but they DID acquire a television. Eventually.  

And it makes me want to sit down and write a modern-day Nero Wolfe novel with an Archie who goes clubbing and is tethered to his cellphone, and a Wolfe who finally broke down and bought a tablet but insists on only using it for reading books, and Fritz probably has a youtube cooking show, and Lily Rowan runs a super hip startup and owns a microbrewery on the side or something.

Then I sit down and try to write it and remember that I don’t know how to write murder mysteries and I am aspiring to fill shoes WAY bigger than my feet. And I make sadfaces and put it away until the next time I watch the show.

It’s the best and also most frustrating vicious cycle ever.

Common Sense (Hamilton x reader) Pt. 2

Link to the first part here!

WARNING:  I’m switching tenses from the last part.  Why did I write it in the third person?!

After that day, that man came back to Ripping Yarns every week.  You discovered his name was Alexander Hamilton, and the two of you discussed not only Common Sense by Thomas Paine, but the writings of Benjamin Franklin, and even some modern-day novels:

Alexander eagerly waved his ink stained hands around as he talked.  ‘No, no!  But she and Gale are just on the same wavelength!’

You sighed–you couldn’t believe you were having this conversation.

‘Mr. Hamilton, with all due respect, Peeta is the yin to her yang-’

He waved your point away with his hand, and said, ‘Alexander! We’re practically the same age.’

What he said was true, but…

‘Don’t dismiss my point, Mr. Hamilton.  As I was saying…’

You never called him by his first name, except in your head.  A professional distance, you told yourself–you had to maintain a professional distance.  But perhaps you could just reach for his hand…

‘MY/N?  You stopped talking in the middle of your sentence.’

MY/N.  That’s why you couldn’t reach for his hand.

‘Mr. Hamilton, I think I’m going to have to close the store for today.’  His smile fell slightly.

‘Why?  Whenever I call you by your name you get like this.  It’s barely even 3pm.’  You went to push him out but he grabbed your wrist.

‘MY/N.’  He pulled you a little closer.  ‘MY/N.’

The atmosphere suddenly got very tense–you froze.  Alexander took the liberty to come a little closer.  No, scratch that; a lot closer.

You could feel his breath upon your face when he said your name again: ‘MY/N.’

You pulled your wrist from his grasp.  ‘I think you have to go, Mr. Hamilton.’

‘But–’ he went to talk but you opened the door.


He left.

You dropped your shoulders and collapsed completely, your head in your hands.  Why did Alexander make you feel so… helpless?

Alexander never brought up what happened again.  Your friendship continued as normal, until one day…

‘MY/N!’  Alexander practically skipped into the bookstore.

‘Yes, Mr. Hamilton?’

His eyes gleamed as he sat down.  ‘Come with me to a cabinet meeting!’

‘What?’  Alexander never talked about his career–a cabinet meeting, was he a politician?  You knew he saw these trips to the store as an escape from reality.

‘Great! I’ll come back at 5.  Be ready!’

And just like that, he left.  You sighed–Alexander went a mile a minute, and sometimes you struggled to catch up.