For those who follow me on Instagram (seriously, are you following me on Instagram?), you’ll know that over the weekend I crossed a significant milestone in the writing process: 15,000 words. I thought there would be fanfare and fireworks and that I’d feel a deep sense of accomplishment, but I can barely pull my head above water right now, so deeply entrenched am I in this story. The time for celebrations and back-patting can wait; even though that number sounds so impressive, it represents maybe a small fraction of what I still need to do. I’m excited about having written 15,192 words, don’t get me wrong, but I’m more excited about the next 85,000 words that still have to make an appearance.
Last week, I introduced you to Sylvie, and made mention of her older Spanish painter husband, Andrés. I haven’t flushed him out yet completely, or really figured out his role in everything, but I kind of adore him. Is that weird? I’ll stop asking that question. I don’t care. I love my fictional characters.
So, about halfway through I realized I was designing this with my dad in mind, HA. Art imitates life or life imitates art, or whatever. That’s why I like these posts so much. I end up learning more about the characters than I knew when I started, despite having written about them every chance I get for a few months now. The glasses are the only part of the outfit that doesn’t ring true to the vision I had in my head of Andrés. But maybe he only wears them when he’s reading? Which he does, voraciously. He’s also an abstract painter, a pipe smoker, and a true romantic. He adores Sylvie, loves her more than anything else in the world, and has from the moment he met her. He’s got a big beard, a bigger belly, and the biggest heart. He is loyal to a fault. Andrés will sit on the small balcony in their apartment and paint for hours (he’s had exhibits in New York and his hometown of Barcelona, and is represented at Sylvie’s gallery), until Sylvie comes home and reminds him he needs to eat. He is the chef in the relationship, though, so he ends up cooking most nights. They have a house on the Côte d’Azur where he spends a few weeks out of the year, quietly painting and pondering life.
I love him, and I love his devotion to Sylvie. I have to think of who to profile next. Maybe I’ll get another 1,000 words done this weekend and have a better idea.