Rico is drunk more often than he isn’t, and he usually clutches a half-bottle of cheap supermarket vodka to his chest like he is nursing a child. It’s one of those brands that is more petrol than alcohol. Occasionally, when he thinks nobody is watching, he will take a swig. Like anyone really gives a shit. Charlie lets him ride for free as long as he keeps his slurred and salacious comments to himself which – to his credit and my surprise – he usually does.
That’s near the beginning of Flowers For Someone Else, and I probably won’t be changing it. I like it. It’s got a sustainable rhythm, although I’m not even sure what I mean by that. Sometimes, the magic of writing is in how it sounds: how it feels when you read it back. You can’t point it out, and you can’t pin it down. It’s just… right.
Yeah, I know. It all sounds like self-congratulatory bullshit. And to some degree it probably is, because writing can be a very lonely and insulated endeavour. You may go for long stretches when you are the only one who will be saying nice things about your words, so patting yourself on the back from time to time for a job well done is no bad thing.
The story isn’t finished yet, but it’s getting there. And when it’s done, it’s gonna be good.