Today’s Motivation: Beauty and the Beast

Today’s Motivation: Beauty and the Beast

The title says it all. As some of you know, I have a Beauty and the Beast inspired piece I’m working on slowly here on my blog. The Keeper, for those who haven’t come across it is a modern day take on the old classic. 

I’ve always loved fairy tales. Who can resist their magic, right? Once upon a time I used to have a Reader’s Digest volumn of fairy tales from around the world. I had discovered it at a garage sale when I was growing up in my early teens in NZ. It had a picture or two accompanying each tale. There were the usually ones we have all heard of, but then there were also many I had never come across. I used to adore that book. I wish I still had it.  When my family moved to Aus, my mum accidentally sold it off in yet another Garage Sale. Circle of life I suppose. I just hope whoever has it now treasures it as much as I did. I have never mourned the loss of a book as much as I still do that work. Alas, back to my point…

The Keeper, as I was saying is my twist on the fairytale. A dark twist I guess. I’ve been enjoying it but I’ve reached a point where I have needed reference to the original material. But with the new live-action film coming out in March, and my own take on the story, I needed to see how close to any of those I was venturing.  I got my hands on the tale a while back but had been meaning to watch Disney’s version. It had been many years since and I don’t recall it very well. So, I borrowed a copy and watched that this evening. 

I was very surprised. Disney’s version is so very different to the original! So so very different. And now at least I know I’m not walking on its shadow with my own writing. Very keen for March. 

It’s a bit too late now, but I think I might get working on the next installment for The Keeper tomorrow. I think my Belle has just started to miss her Beast. I wonder what the charming devil will do next…

G’night for now.


Finding inspiration for the Musically inclined 

Finding inspiration for the Musically inclined 

Current Obsession: Music

Instrument skills: none whatsoever! 

What I would love to be able to play: piano, or a violin, can’t decide. 
I don’t normally confess to being an obsessive kind unless you consider slight OCD when it come to my own things. Even in my chaotic room, there is a semblance of order that only I would understand obviously. Nor have I ever been a crazy ‘fan’ of anything. I mean, I understand that people will admire artists and actors, and other figures in the public, but even as a teenager growing up, my obsessive nature only went as far as pretending to be obsessed by talking about a ‘topic’ or cutting out bits and bobs to actually forget about them and years late bin them. No. I have never been the obsessive kind, and nor have I understood the compulsion to be honest. 
What is it that drives people to go crazy after something? 
At the moment, my obsession has been, in a loose sense of the word, listening to Nepali songs of today on YouTube. I just pick a song (obviously the one I can remember a name off), then I select the playlist already compiled or suggested and go with it. Some songs will be great, some not so. But I have to say, they are really coming up with a few that get stuck in my head and keeps looping. 
Most of the time, I wouldn’t say I’m a music person, nor would I know artists and songs. But I have become somewhat of a fan of this new artist (obviously not new to the country), Rohit John Chetri. He has a smooth voice that doesn’t jar, and mostly I love the lyrics. I usually don’t even pay attention to the lyrics but this time, I keep playing a song on repeat. It has melody, harmony, lyrics that have weight, and music that is quite calming. 
If you are Nepali and happen by this post, check out the song ‘Bistarai Bistarai’ (Slowly, slowly) I guess. Even if you are not, I dare say you will still love the music in it. 
Today I found myself humming the song as I painted butterflies and rainbows on few tiny Wonder Women. I didn’t know all the lyrics, I never do. Going by yesterday’s theme of finding motivation, I think I might start collecting some songs that have the right feel for me. They do put me in a mood to create. 
Alas, I’m still singing the song in my head and going to bed bistarai (slowly). Good night all. Talk to you tomorrow. That is if I don’t forget. 


Finding Motivation to write when all you want to do is the ‘P’ word. 

Procrastinate, that is. Mind you, we don’t normally wake up in the morning saying ‘Hey, I know what I’m gonna do today. And that is do everything else but the thing I should do.’ No, unfortunately it’s the opposite. With the dawning of our day, be it 5AM in the morning (if you are an early bird), or closer to midday, we all wake up thinking, ‘Today is the day. Today is it. I’m gonna do it!’ And about halfway out of bed, you forget your pledge and slip into slippery slopes of getting distracted by this and that, a stray thought that leads you to do one thing after the other till you realize the whole day has been spent and you have slithered back into bed feeling disappointed. Of course, in that last heroic stance you think maybe you should just start that piece now. Just a matter of stretching over and grabbing your tools. But then again, who is going to sleep for you? Right? 

I have been fighting and failing to write. Procrastination always gets in the bloody way! And that got me thinking, what is it about this year that has proven to be such a challenge? (Of which there have been a few valid distractions.) Most years I pump out at least a book, and a few scripts, not to mention the many odd things I post here. But 2016 has been that whimsical year. September. Well hello there, how do you do? It’s almost gone too. Meaning only a quarter of the year is left and so much more to write. 
Nowadays, I troll social media for inspiration, something to drive me to write. When once I used to be able to write any random thing, this year, despite the many quotes and prompts pinned on Pinterest, my interest in writing as much as I used has dwindled. I’m a sporadic writer. So sporadic indeed that it’s actually started to really bug me. And bug me it does, hence this article. 
Every writer has to get in the right headspace to write. Everyone. I know as writers we evolve over time, develop our styles, our voices, our routine. However, what most people won’t admit to is, we evolve into creatures of habit, we seek out comfort zones that will put us in the mood for writing straight away. And these spaces, these sanctuary hold great power over us. It becomes sacred, and the thought of writing else become less and less welcomed.
My space used to be cafes, but mostly I could write anywhere once a sentence or two were spelt. Nowadays, it feels as if something inside is calling for a dedicated writing space. Too long have I gone without that corner sofa in a humming cafe, that isolated-yet-I’m-still-in-public feeling that allowed me to people watch at a safe distance. Writing space. Think about that. It could be your room. It could be that park across the road from work, or the cafe down a couple go blocks. Or it could just be a piece of music that sets your mood. 
The point is, find motivation. Do whatever it takes to kick start that brain of yours. Once you start it, it will do its thing. Sometimes, I write a simple micro poetry and post it on Twitter to the same satisfaction I get if I had written a whole chapter for my current work-in-progress (which of course I have quite a few).
Procrastination is a habit my dears. A terrible habit. One that should come with a warning label; ‘Beware! Distractions may cause delay in achievement of ones happiness and desires!’ 
Or something to that effect. Today’s motivation has been this effort to psyche myself up. From tomorrow, or there off, here is hoping that I can kick some ‘P’ butt and get on with what I need to do. No buts, no ifs. Think of the future. Think of your goal. And keep that gaol in mind. What’s mine for the rest of the year? Finish the book, and a rewrite a script. 
There. I said it. 3 months, plenty of distractions. Can I do it? I sure hope so. At least, I’d like to think I’ll try. 
Fingers are crossed. So crossed.

Into the Night

Into the Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go quiet without a fight,

rage, rage against the dying of a life.

Do not go silent into the morrow,

rage, rage against the passing of the time.

Do not go discreet with the passing hours,

rage, rage against the careful plight.

Do not go simple into this life,

rage, rage for the quest alike. 
Do not go gentle my friend,

go in a frenzy your own way.

(Inspired and propelled by Dylan Thomas’ poetry).


Cry, cry you may.

The words fall on deaf ears.

Noise filters not through haze.

Life, it has but been waste. 

Time matters, as long as displayed;

Msgs, txts, the numerous #hastags!

Friends aplenty on the wide world of web.

Yet, very few know what it takes;

to go through day by day. 

Life in motion is only motion,

seemlessley going nowhere. 
Lols, Lmaos and TGIFs 

bring back Thursdays.
But wait… Who brings back this moment? This place? This…something.
You don’t care. Another selfie communicates. 
Me, mine, my. How’s my face? status update.
OMG, wtf. Society has abbreviated

in every which way. 

So do TC.

The Keeper (Part 16)

The days that followed weren’t exactly easy for Mona, nor were the nights. During the day, she suffered, watching her father wither inch by inch into his skeleton. His cough worsening. 

‘Why don’t you let me take you to the doctors, Dad?’ Mona had begun to lose patience. ‘Your coughs sound terrible!’

‘I’m fine, Belle. You go back to your work!’ And equally, her father was getting stubborn.
And between looking after him and the other children of the house, Mona was beginning to wish for some comforts her stay at Beast’s had provided. 
It wasn’t the daylight that worried her as much, it were the nights. The terrible nightmares that left her trembling awake. Night after night, she’d been dreaming of Lucifer. And night after night, the dreams got darker and darker and he grew less and less like a beast, but a man. A man suffering. Till one night she woke in such fright, yelling his name into the cold air. 
‘Lucifer?!’ She murmured in the dark. For days, she had tried speaking to him, or the voice of him in her head, but for days he’d remained quiet. This night, it was different. This night, she’d seen him die, or the man he’d become die. The dark corridors of his palace unlit. The rooms once filled with unexplained life now soulless. The voices she’d hear in the corridor gone. Nothing remained but a beast who grew weaker and weaker dream by dream till he stopped roaming the hallways. Till all that remained between her and him was the wall of thorns, the door she’d once seen. This night she’d heard his agony from beyond the door like so many nights. This night, she’d gone in. This night, his moans and groans had fallen silent like never before. This night, the man lay dead. 
‘Lucifer.’ She called gently into the night, her eyes barely making out the shadows in her room. ‘Are you there? Can you hear me?’

Moments stretched as eons and finally his voice broke through, feeble. ‘Yes, beauty. For now…’

Mona squinted her eyes. Was that a flicker of his shadow along the wall. ‘Are you okay?

For the briefest moment, his eyes glowed red. ‘Never better. You? Enjoying your stay?’
Mona rose from her bed slowly. ‘I don’t think you are okay.’ She could hear his laboured breathing as she stepped closer. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?’

‘Sleep, dear Mona. Sleep.’ His voice floated and echoed around her head. And then he was gone. 

‘Beast? Are you still there?’

Mona couldn’t sleep all the rest of the night. Something untoward was happening and she could feel it. She flew around in a trance all day, from getting breakfast in bed for her father, to getting ready for work. She couldn’t make sense of her worry. Beast was fine. She was sure of it. 

She found a seat on the train and soon, let the restless night catch up with her.

‘Have you come?’ Lucifer asked quietly from beyond the glaring white light. 

Mona blinked till her eyes adjusted. The room was dusky, the curtains still drawn. The massive four poster bed loomed ahead of her and she recalled the ghastly thing she’d once seen on it. This time, there was no sign of anyone, bar the slept in bed.

‘Come closer.’ Mona stepped closer to the head of the bed but remained at arms length. It wasn’t till she saw a striking young man drowned by the folds. His honeyed eyes locked on her with a sly smile. ‘Don’t tell me I still terrify you?’ He laughed, a rough, raspy laugh.
‘Who are you?’ Mona gasped. ‘You sound just like him…’ She dared step closer. ‘Just like him.’

The man smiled. ‘Name’s Lucifer, according to you and many others, but I once used to be called Lucian.’
Mona knew she was staring but she couldn’t help it. Where was beast? She knew she didn’t much like him, but she’d somehow grown fond of him in a way. He was a friend. ‘Where is Beast? What have you done with him?’

Lucian heaved a heavy breath. ‘I cannot tell you.’
Mona narrowed her eyes in a flash of anger. ‘Then what can you tell me?’

‘That, should you marry me within this fortnight, I shall be the luckiest man alive.’

‘Why fortnight?’ She couldn’t help but ask.

‘Because, at the strike of midnight then…’
The dream screeched to a halt. Mona’s eyes flew open as she glared around the carriage bewildered. People stared at her, and she felt the questions rise. She stood up and walked to the door, her stop was next. 

‘What happens at midnight?’ She muttered, looking out into the dark tunnel whizzing past, hoping for a voice to answer. 

None came.

Puppet Master: The beginning

It’s an early autumn morning, and before the sun begins to rise and the fog begins to lift from the sleepy city, they wake, bright eyed and bushy tailed. They who walk amongst us, sit next to us in lecture halls, or the subway, or are the person in the crowd you thought is cute. They make us who we are. Everything that we are. They, who call themselves The Hand of God, but what they really are are puppeteers and we, their puppets. They have our lives in their hands and it’s serious business. Who wakes up 10 minutes late and misses that train to work. Who will accidentally walk in on their partners and the other woman, or man. They decide whether you walk by and notice the food stand and go in for that pie you always wished you’d tried, only to get food poisoning and end up in the hospital, missing your girlfriend’s birthday, and inevitably breaking up. They decide where complications happens, and with it, how and when we die. 
They hold our lives in their hands. And they can make it or break it. It’s that simple. And how do I know this? 
My name is Zane, and I will tell you all about it, but first, let’s tell you the story from the very beginning, from the moment I walked out of my house that morning 5 years ago thinking I was headed to my first day of work as a resident in St Patrick’s hospital. The day I thought my life was about to begin. How naive I must have been. 
It was the day everything ended instead. One mistake. One tiny mistake, and I was no longer a puppet. 

The Keeper (Part 15)

Days melded into one in a huge blur, as if no time had passed between Mona having stood at the platform awaiting train and now. She was back to her old life. Nothing else and no one else seemed to have changed but she herself. She’d wake every morning, before the whole house woke and sit on her bed knowing that somewhere, she didn’t even know where, but somewhere out there was an old manor of sorts, dark, aged, and quiet. And in its long mysterious halls walked a man, or thing she’d never fully seen but she knew he was there, roaming those hallways as if in search of something. She’d hear him sometimes walking down the hall towards her room. His footsteps would still outside for what felt like ages, then they’d walk again, back into the darkness. She used to be terrified of those moments, as if he’d barge in and torture her somehow. He never did. In fact, he’d been nothing but kind. Now that she thought about it, she felt a kind of peace, even a hint of longing to hear those reassuring feet walk towards her room. Make sure she was okay like he’d done. Those were the days she always found his letters with her breakfast, to see how she was going and if she desired anything else.
‘Mona!’ Came an unexpected shriek of her eldest sister. ‘Mona, come quick, dad needs you!’
Without haste, Mona flew off her bed and ran down the hallway to her father’s room. She caught him as he tried to stand. ‘Why are you up? You need rest, daddy.’
‘All I’ve been doing is resting. If I rest anymore I’m gonna be dying.’ He held onto her shoulders. ‘I want the sun on my face today.’
‘It’s a cloudy day daddy. You’re not gonna see the sun, but I can put the fire on for you.’ She led him to the lounge and placed him on the couch before trying to kindle a fire. 
‘Why did you come back?’
‘What you mean? It’s my home, and I missed you.’ She turned in time to see tears stream down his haggard face. He held his hand out to her and she went to him. ‘I’m where I belong.’
He nodded. ‘What will happen to you when I’m gone?’ He held her face gently. ‘My Belle. What have I done to bring such a beauty in this world, huh?’
Mona smiled and kissed her father’s cheek and held his hand. ‘We will be fine.’
He coughed, a deep cough that sent her into a panic. He wasn’t sounding good these days. ‘I thought I made a trade, my life for yours.’ Her father caressed her check reverently. ‘I thought he’d give you the world, whatever you asked for, but here you are, back in the grind. Slaving away for people who don’t deserve you.’
‘You are my family.’ Mona felt confused. What did her father mean when he said he’d traded his life for her. ‘I asked to be here. This is what I want.’ She searched his face for answers but none were coming. 
‘What a life it could have been.’ He smiled small. ‘Beauty and the …’

Beast! Her thought reeled straight to him and she didn’t hear what her father was saying. 
‘Belle! My Mona.’
‘Yes, daddy.’
‘You’re getting late for work today. Go. Before they wake up and pretend they are royalty and you Cinderella. Go child.’
Belle hugged her father. Something in his voice made her spine tingle and not in a good way. ‘I hate leaving you with them.’
Her father laughed. ‘Now you know how I feel when I think of leaving you with these selfish monsters.’
‘Don’t joke about that please, daddy.’ She planted a kiss on his head. ‘I’ll get you some hot porridge and tea before I go. And make sure they feed you lunch yeah? I’ll bring us something special for dinner from work, the two of us.’
‘Goodbye my princess.’
Mona stopped and stared at her father. Something was not right. She could feel it in her blood. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
Between wet, snarky coughs, he nodded. ‘Get going.’

All day, thoughts about her father and Beast interrupted her. She was giving wrong change to customers, serving milk when they’d asked for black coffee, burning toast, or forgetting orders. 
‘Are you alright, Mona?’ Her boss pulled her aside after lunch rush. ‘You don’t look so good. You getting any rest at home?’
Mona stared at him, perplexed. Part of her wondered everyday why she hadn’t been fired. Part of her wondered why they hadn’t asked why she’d gone missing for more than a month. But they again, she’d felt it odd when she’d gone back to the diner to ask for her old job back, they’d laughed. 
‘Why? What happen to you last night? You hit your head or something? And why aren’t you already in uniform?’
‘What?’ She asked.
‘I’ve been watching you all morning. Your heads somewhere else.’
‘It’s my dad.’ She sighed. ‘He didn’t look well this morning, and started talking strange, like he was saying goodbye or something.’
‘Go home. I can’t have you working like this where clearly your head and heart is at home. Go home and be with you dad. You can come back when you are ready.’ 
And that was it. Moments later, Mona was back at the same platform waiting for the train. She couldn’t help but think of the brick room where she’d first arrived aay Lucifer’s. Had Beast been entirely a figment of her apparently very wild imagination? She wasn’t quite sure, but she did miss his voice in her head. 
‘Wondered when you’d be thinking of me.’ The unmistakable boom echoed in her mind and she jumped.
‘Are you kidding me?’ She looked around. There were a handful of people around her. Their eyes furrowed in query. She half smiled. ‘The train’s late again!’ She turned away, staring down the track.
‘Are you even real?’ She whispered, aware of looking like a loon talking to herself. ‘How do I know you’re even real?’
‘Look around. Tell me what you see.’ And she did just that.
‘A platform, people waiting for train, train tracks, billboards, the schedule screen, the guards…’
‘Look down the platform. At the tracks. What do you see?’ Mona turned, taking a deep breath as she focused on the track. ‘Just where the shadows start. What do you see?’
‘I…’ She couldn’t be sure, she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. There on the tracks, just beyond the shadow a figure looms, two eyes glowing dim red for a few seconds before everything belongs to the shadows again. ‘Your eyes,’ she managed breathily. She could never forget those terrifying eyes.
‘Breathe Mona!’ His voice in an instant floated around her ear, as if he were standing behind her. She turned to nothing but air. ‘I’m here. Whenever you want me.’ His voice floated to her other ear. ‘All you have to do is call my name.’
‘Lucifer,’ the name volunteered itself out of her and in a delusional moment, she saw a tall figure, looming on the edge of the platform. 
Mona searched the commuters on the platform to see if anyone had noticed the sudden appearance of a very tall man, but no one had. When she turned, there was no more than air and the screeching sound of rails gliding a locomotive towards her. 
She took a deep, staggering breath and closed her eyes. It’s not real. It’s not real. No one else can see him
As the train pulled into the platform, the doors opened and a rumble of people staggered out. That’s when she saw him again, standing inside the train, staring at her, a smile she could barely make out. Those eyes. Those terrifying eyes. 
She blinked hard hoping to erase her thoughts, but an image flashed in her mind. A garden of sort, everything in it dead, wilting. Everything in it dark and colorless. All except a rose blooming from a seemingly dead rose bush. One simple, beautiful red rose. 
When Mona opened her eyes, he was gone, but the image remained in her mind. Seared in fact. The train doors beeped, sending her in a rush before they closed on her.  A rose. What did it have to do with him? 

Charming Mr Stewart 

What does a writer do in the course of a typical day you think. Well, I’d tell you, but I’m not quiet sure myself! Today, this unusually warm winter Sydney day, I went dress shopping with a friend to a town we both had never been to (Hail GPS for that!). Then meandered through a mall never before been to either, wearing heels mind you (ouch right there). Then killed a couple of hours for a film screening to begin by sitting in a darkish corner of a chocolate house (Max Brenner for those who know). I love those Crunchy waffle ball things they have, so had one of those and wiled away the minutes by reading things on Facebook and then Pinterest, then back to FB. Bored a little.

Before long I actually remembered I had bought a notebook to keep me entertained so finally, after my drink went cold and I had nothing else to do, I pulled the book out and mulled over a book blurb (in anticipation for my next release come Christmas!!!!!!). So I wanted to share this with you and maybe get your opinions. 
I’ve been mulling over a new title I wanted to try, and a new direction for the blurb. So here goes. Oh it’s a romantic genre for those interested. 

Charming Mr Stewart
When Ellenor Grace first meets the unrelenting Mr Stewart it was warning bells at first sight. Her palms sweat, her heart skips a beat, or maybe it was the heat of the day. Either way, the danger is present. Love. 

For someone who never wants to love again, it’s not an easy decision to make, to cover or not to cover the wedding of the year. Taking on the job is half her problem; her real problem is Mr Stewart who insists on being called Dean, his snobbish mother, and a woman hell bent on letting Elle know Dean is hers. If Elle wants to make it to the other end of it in one piece, she must keep her heart. Hard to do when Dean attempts to steal it every chance he gets. 

(Eeeee. How did it go? Come on, give me honest opinions. I’d like to make this as good as it can be. I hate writing blurbs!! Lol)

The Man who waited: 2

It was the first day of a new week in the house. The house that had once been Keith’s. Georgia had moved in couple of weeks ago, carefully going through the place and keeping anything of value in boxes and stashed neatly in a corner of the attic she’d managed to clear a bit of. That monster she’d have to sort out on a much later date. First up on her list was to make the place inhabitable. Not that old Keith had been a terrible housekeeper, but let’s face it, he was a lonely man in a family home he tried to preserve. It had gone through a lot in the years, but the main thing was, it had gone through being stuck back in time. If Georgia had to live in the house, then she supposed she’d need to fix it up, and fix it up she was going to. The first thing she wanted gone was the dog-eared carpet that was balding.
‘All the carpets out, yeah?’ She followed a man out the front door in a rush. ‘How long before the floor is replaced with new ones?’
‘You sure you want to go with carpet?’ He asked. ‘I mean, it’s got nice hard wood floor underneath that we can buff and varnish. Be a beauty soon enough.’
Georgia felt perplexed. Ask her about how she wanted her cafe to be and it would be a piece of cake to decide. Ask her how she wanted her new home and it was as if she were being asked which of her parents she’d loved more. Neither. And both. God, stop with the questions. 
‘Well what?’ She rummaged through her bag in search of her keys. 
‘Wood or carpet?’ 
‘I don’t know, Piko. I really can’t decide.’ In fact, Georgia hadn’t been able to decide since she brought in Piko to consult almost two weeks ago.
‘How about you pop back in at lunch. We should have all the carpets stripped by that time and you can see what wood looks like.’
Georgia nodded vigorously. ‘Sounds great.’ She rushed off down the porch steps. ‘And anything else you need…’
‘I’ll send Spanky down by the cafe to get you.’
‘Right,’ she nodded and rounded the corner onto the side step. ‘See ya later then!’

‘Well?’ Piko stood with hands on hip and stared at the dusty wooden floor in the living room. ‘We will sand it back and varnish it. Look brand new then.’
‘I’ve never had wooden floors.’
‘Easy to clean and maintain in my opinion. Sweep, mop, doesn’t stain when you spill things on it. And if you want you can have rugs in the rooms. And save you a ton of cash.’
Georgia’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she busied herself with the message. ‘Yeah, let’s go with that then.’
‘What? The wooden floors?’ And she nodded. ‘And what do you want us to do with the letters?’
‘What letters?’
Piko held up a hand to signal a moment, then rushed out to the kitchen. He walked back with what could be called a stack of sealed envelopes, old and stained in his hand. ‘We found these under the carpet by the front door. Thought you might like them.’
‘Yeah, leave them on the counter. I’ll check them when I get back home this evening.’ 

Georgia meandered through the stripped rooms with wine in hand, trying to imagine what they would look like once all done up. She’d thrown away all of Keith’s furniture or given them to St Vinnies where appropriate. Now, most rooms stood empty bar one or two items. She’d kept the old wooden rocking chair for herself though. It looked hand made and from the rumors, might have been something Keith had made for his wife who had been pregnant once. She wondered, as she passaged through each room what life was like for the Richards. Who were they? And most importantly, where were they now? Why had Keith been awaiting their return. That’s when she remembered the pile of letters Piko had told her about earlier. 
She found herself soon in the kitchen, going through the pile. They seemed peculiar to her. Aged, grimmed, somewhat damp, and oddest yet, no postage stamp. On the front was scrolled in a beautiful writing: Keith. Some even said ‘Dearest Keith’. And a couple simply said nothing at all. As if the person responsible for these had given up addressing him after a while. She picked one at random with Dearest Keith on the front and ripped the envelope. 
Dear Keith,

I write this with utmost fear that you will not read it. I wish I could have explained to you. To make you see why I did what I did. I know you must be angry. I would too if I were in your shoes. You have every right to shun me. To pretend I do not stand by on the other side of the street waiting for you to open the door. Or some days, you don’t notice me asleep by our door. Please. Please give me one chance. I need to talk to you. Please, hear me out. 



Who was Nina? Wondered Georgia. And what had she done? She topped up her wine, gathered all the letters, and made her way to her room where there was nothing more than a queen mattress on the floor and a lampshade beside it. Temporary of course. 
Long into the night, Georgia read the letters one by one. The more she read, the more puzzling Keith became. What kind of a man was he in life to do what he did?!