A time someone said no

“Jim, please,” Agnes said. “I gotta have ‘im and I gotta have ‘im now!”

“Settle down, Agnes,” I counseled. It wasn’t good letting your characters get ahead of themselves. Before you knew it, the plot would get way out of control and you’d never be able to bring it back in for a landing. I was also worried about Agnes’s dialogue. She was talking way too much like a teenager from Cherry Hill, New Jersey in 1995 than a young woman in the Great Depression.

“Perhaps in two or three chapters I’ll let the two of you get together. But just because you saw Norman Balmoral running in Independence Hall in a tight shirt and shorts and got all hot and bothered by his hairy-muscled arms and legs, that doesn’t mean you can sleep with him right away.”

“It does if you let me! I haven’t gotten laid at all in your book yet.”

“What have I ever done to deserve this? Haven’t I written you well enough? I thought I’d written you to be a good girl, an obedient one, at least until that scene in the back office …”

“You mean I finally get it in some back office? No, I want roses and violins, and I want ‘em now!”

“No, my dear. You’ll have to wait. And if I catch you fondling Norman’s biceps in the next scene, I’ll punish you. Some vagrant attacks poor Mrs. O’Toole on the street and you need to focus on helping her, not on seducing Norman. If you do, I’ll just put off the big sex scene until after you get married. Now how’d you like that?”

“Oh no, I was looking forward to the excitement of pre-marital hanky panky!”

“You’re a proper Irish girl, Agnes. You’re supposed to wait until your wedding night.”

“Then why’d you make me left-handed and sarcastic? And why’d you give me Granny as a role model?”

“I guess I just didn’t write you right.”