Write 'Em Cowboy

I let out a breath. "Thanks. That... was actually really helpful."

"I'm glad." Then she looked down, suddenly shy. "So, do you think... Maybe I could read some of your stuff now?"

I know I was turning red, but I stammered, "Uhh, sure, if you really want to?"

She nodded. "I really do."

I blew out a long breath. "I've been publishing it on an online fiction site called SexesNexus."

"Small world — I've got an account there too!"

Now that she'd told me, I did notice on the screen that she had a SexesNexus account open in a separate window.

"'PorscheWriter'? Nice username! And the 911 Turbo with the inkwell and goose quill? Very cool avatar."

"Thanks," she said.

"But... you're a pro! Why would you hang out on a free fiction site?"

"I go there when I'm in between writing my own books. To clear my mind, I veg out and binge on my favorite authors. Sometimes I even get an idea that I can use for my next book."

I tried to keep my face very neutral. "So, you take ideas from this website and then publish them in your books?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" She shook her head vehemently. "That would be plagiarism! I do something completely different. I mindlessly browse through the latest stories until I hit some tired, old trope that I've heard a million times but that now intrigues me for some reason. I let it percolate in my brain for a while, and then I try to think of a way to turn that trope on its head and take the story off in a completely different direction."

"Uhh... can you give me an example?"

"Okay, here's one I saw just the other night. Have you read the story about a guy who comes home from work early, and finds a strange car in his driveway?"

"Oh, sure — only about a thousand times."

"Well, what if instead of a car, it was a spaceship?"

"Umm..."

"Exactly! Sounds stupid, doesn't it? And that leads to all sorts of questions, like, 'Why is it at my house?' or 'Why isn't my house a pile of radioactive slag?' or 'Why isn't the US Army surrounding my house, with a bazooka aimed at my front door?' or most importantly, 'Is my wife in there fucking a little green man?'"

"Umm... Good questions."

"I know, right? And they lead to even better questions. And sometimes those lead to a pretty good story that's worth expanding into a book."

I thought for a moment, and then asked, "Do you ever find any ideas that are so good, that you want to use them as is?"

"Yeah, once in a great while. When that happens, I contact the author, and try to license his or her idea for my book."

"Hmm... Interesting."

She logged into the site and clicked on her dashboard. "Ooh, look at this! One of my favorite authors just published a new story. I like the title: Bumping Boots at the Dude Ranch."

Oh shit! My blood ran cold. That was the story I posted last night!

Portia seemed unaware of my state of shock and blithely clicked on the link. "Let's see... the plot summary is 'The Taming of the Shrew, set at a dude ranch.' Sort of like us, huh?"

My mouth was dry. "Yeah, that's quite the coincidence..."

"Here's one of the things I love about this site. You run into people like this guy. He's got a lot to learn about writing, but he has a great ear for dialogue! Let me scan through this story and see if I can find you some examples."

"Umm... that's okay. Say, aren't we going to be late for Cowboy Karaoke Night?"

"No, that's tomorrow night. Now sit down. I want to read you some of this guy's material. Ah, here we go."

Fuck me! I knew exactly where this was going.

"Oh, this is great. The two main characters have a meet-cute on a trail ride."

"Meet-cute?"

"Yeah, it's a ROM-COM term for when the two main characters meet for the first time," she said, continuing to read. "Anyway, his horse bumps into hers and she calls him..."

Then her jaw dropped and she said, "NO WAY! No! Fucking! Way!"

Oh, shit! Here it comes! I began to cower inside.

She continued to read, "...a pus-filled boil on a mandrill's ass?!"

Her head snapped around and her eyes drilled into mine. "YOU!"

I quivered.

Her eyes grew wide, and I prepared to meet my doom. "YOU..."

I cringed and waited for the blow to fall.

"You... are 'Python_Wrangler_96'?"

In a tiny voice, I said, "Yes...?"

Her whole facial expression transformed. "Oh my God! This is great! I've been wanting to contact you for months about a collaboration. I can't believe that he's you! You're him! I love your wacky plot ideas!"

I was stunned, and couldn't say a word.

Then her eyes narrowed. "Okay, I've got to ask. Why do you call yourself... 'Python_Wrangler_96'? Please tell me you're not referring to..." and she glanced down at my lap and back up.

"Huh? OH! Oh shit, no. I, uhh, I do a lot of programming, mostly in Python. It's a computer language."

She was visibly relieved. "Good. Whew! I'm really glad it's that and not some sophomoric single entendre about your dick."

"Nope, I would never stoop to mere single-entendre. If I'm gonna make a dick joke, it'll be at least a double."

"Can't wait," she said drily, giving me one of her patented eye rolls.

===

WEDNESDAY

===

PORTIA

It chapped my ass to admit it, but Betty was right. Coming to this dude ranch was exactly what I needed. Consider me successfully jolted out of the rut I've been in for the last six months.

Once we stopped verbally harpooning each other every time we met, Harry and I have gotten along really well. As promised, he yanks my chain several times a day. But it's never in a mean way — it's always playful and eventually hilarious. He is also an equal opportunity chain yanker. I found myself joining in with the verbal catch-and-release ploys he sprang on his friends Bill and Joe. They were good-natured about it, but wasted no time heading for the golf course the first thing every morning to rope a birdie or brand an eagle. Possibly they just wanted to get away from me and Harry.

This ranch was extremely accommodating to the needs of its guests. Although they gave us many opportunities to immerse ourselves in cowboy culture, no one minded if we went off and did our own thing. After breakfast, Harry and I walked along the shady paths that meandered through the live oak trees, chatting about life, love, and literature. It was the most fun I'd had in the last year. We generated so many plot ideas on that stroll that we wound up cutting it short and headed back to our rooms to write them down.

I was prepared to do my usual thing; hole up and write until I cratered from sheer hunger. Harry had other plans. "So, were you serious about collaborating with me on a story?"

"Oh, yes! I'd love to."

"Okay, then. How do you usually go about it when you collaborate with someone?"

"Well..." I wracked my brain for a moment. "I guess I've never actually collaborated with another author. Even when I license someone's idea, I still write the story myself. I guess the only 'collaboration' I have done is between me and my editor. I send her a few chapters, and then she sends them back all marked up."

He smiled. "Want to try something a bit different?"

"Uh, sure. Like what?"

"I'll be right back." He was back in a few minutes with his laptop bag over his shoulder, dragging the desk chair from his room.

He set up his laptop, typed for a minute, and then said. "Okay, look at your email. I've just shared a Google Docs file with you. Open it, and we'll get started."

"What am I looking at here?"

"It's the text for my online story, Bumping Boots. You said you liked the premise, but that it had some plot holes and a few other issues. How about we take my story and fix it and expand it, just as an exercise in collaboration?

"Uh... sure. Where should I start?"

"Anywhere you like. I'll be doing the same thing."

Okay, where to begin? I decided that the title needed a bit of work, so I changed it to Bumping Boots at the Circle Seven — much more specific than the more generic "Dude Ranch", and also with a savory soupçon of added alliteration. Almost immediately a cheery little comment box popped up next to the title that said, "Awesome! I like it!"

Then I spotted a minor plot hole in the introductory chapters — two holes, actually. I quickly typed a short text reminder for each idea and then started tackling hole number 1. As I finished filling it, I noticed that hole number 2 was already being filled in real-time by Harry's unseen hand. "Wow, that is so weird." Then I spotted a missing Oxford comma in the sentence he was typing, so I immediately added one.

Harry looked up and stuck out his tongue at me. I remained serenely smug and turned back to my keyboard.

And so it went. I would work on my own little part of the story, and then move on to something else. When I returned to my previous place, I would find that Harry had advanced the plot off in some new and crazy direction — sometimes painting the main characters into a literary corner. That inspired me to write them out of that corner and send them off toward a new dilemma. Then I would polish the rough edges of his nuttier plot points. That in turn would stimulate me to add some of my own madness. I was surprised at how well we worked together; each of us balancing out the wild excesses of the other.

Some time had passed when a loud growl interrupted my writing. My stomach was feeling neglected and let me know about it.

Harry grinned and said, "Greetings, from the interior."

I looked at my watch. "Holy shit, it's 2:30 — we worked right through lunch!"

"We sure did." He drawled, "Wanna go rustle up some grub over at the chuck wagon?"

"Ohh, baby! You really get me going when you talk all cowboy to me."

He laughed and said, "Mission accomplished, little lady. Now, let's mosey over to the chuck wagon and see if those city-slickers have left us any of that cabrito."

Off we moseyed.

===

HARRY

I owed Bill and Joe an apology. Coming here for the bachelor party was a great idea. I still found the ranch theme a bit contrived, but the country here was lovely, and the company was great.

I had just spent the most amazing morning with Portia. I certainly admired her fine, female form, and had enjoyed having it plastered up against me during the denouement of our day on the river yesterday. However, today was even better. The intellectual intimacy of several hours spent weaving words with a fellow author was a new and profound experience for me.

I'm no monk and have had some wonderful times in the sack with some of the bonny belles of Barton Creek. However, such physical intimacy is like a slab of apple pie — a great treat, but it leaves you wanting something a little more sustaining. I felt extremely well-nourished in that regard today. It was hard for me to believe that we had only known each other for a few days.

I continued to be in awe of Portia's writing skills. She would take a paragraph that I was particularly proud of, and start polishing it. When she was done, the text would shine like one of those woodworking projects when you put on that first coat of poly. She also had a gift for explaining why she made each refinement. I was eager to get back to writing, and to deploy some of the new tips and techniques she had shown me.

After we were done enjoying our tacos, I asked her, "So, where do you see this collaboration going?"

She smiled and said, "At the rate we were writing this morning, we could have the first draft of the book done in another month. Then, after a few revisions, it should be ready to send to my publisher."

I was a little shocked. "Publisher? As in, they would publish a book for us?"

"Not only that, sweetie. They would distribute it, advertise it, and send us on book tours."

Us? Tours? Sweetie? "Uh... you said 'sweetie'?"

"It just slipped out." Were her cheeks a little pink?

"No, no! I like it. Gosh, this is moving along pretty fast, huh?"

"Yeah, I hated the thought of coming to Bandera at first. Now I'm hating the thought of leaving. I never expected to fall in 'like' with someone so quickly."

I laughed. "Well put. I'm also dreading the end of the week. I'm going to miss having your lovely brain around all the time."

Her smile bloomed. "Writing on Google Docs was really fun today. But being able to reach over and do this is even better." And she reached over and took my hand.

We went back to her room and wrote for a few more hours. One of my favorite parts was when one of us would happen upon the other's fresh text and burst out laughing. That so totally broke our concentration but was so totally worth it.

Eventually, my fingers grew tired of typing and my eyes weary of squinting at a screen. I rubbed my face and stretched out my shoulders. "That was awesome, but my brain is full now."

"Mine too." She threw her shoulders back and stretched, which had the pleasant side effect of emphasizing her breasts. I tried not to ogle, but the slight widening of my eyes gave me away.

She laughed, and said, "Shoulders back, show off the rack."

My eyes got a bit wider. "I beg your pardon?"

"Just a little pageant SOP." She made another small motion that subtly emphasized her breasts. "Show off the girls, and the boys will pay attention."

"I... had no idea you were a pageant girl," I stammered. "Not that you aren't pretty enough."

She stuck her tongue out at me. "I wasn't. It's just one of the many things that little girls hear from their moms when they're growing up. Never know when something like that will come in handy. Besides, it's great research for my stories."

"Consider it handy." I waggled my eyebrows. "Consider me attentive."

She gave me side-eye. "I gathered that. Now, what do you want to do this evening?"

"I'm going to take a shower. Then I'd like to take you out for an evening of Cowboy Karaoke. Sweetie."

Her eyes crinkled. "Okay. But... I'm not going to get up and sing."

"Of course not!" I lied.

===

PORTIA

What a great day — hours of hanging out with Harry and fashioning phrases together. I'm not too wild about karaoke, but I had so much fun today that I'd be willing to go to an evening of possum sacking with him.

Harry showed up at my door in de rigueur western attire and a gray Stetson. But his looked a lot different than the faux frontier outfits the other guests were wearing. Harry's gear was clean but looked well-worn and comfortable. I stared at his shiny belt buckle, which showed a horseman roping a calf. "What's that?"

"Oh, something I won back in the day."

"Rodeo?"

"Mm hmm." Then he distracted me by revealing another, smaller Stetson that he had been hiding behind his back. "If I may, mademoiselle, a chapeau to complete your ensemble."

I snorted, but put the hat on, and we walked over to the bar.

It was actually a lot of fun — at least until the MC announced the next karaoke couple, and said, "And on deck, Harry and Portia!"

I gave Harry a look of utter betrayal, and said, "You... you... rat bastard! I'll get you for this."

Harry just smiled, and said, "You certainly will, sweetie. You certainly will."

As the act before us wrapped up their song, I downed the rest of my second margarita. Mmm, these were good. They weren't skimping on the tequila.

I'm not a big fan of country music, but I was familiar with the Garth Brooks hit, "Low Places." Fortunately, everyone else in the bar knew it too, and sang right along with us.

I'm not a bad singer, but I don't enjoy singing in public. However, with the help of alcohol and Harry's arm around my waist, I felt bold enough to give it a try. He pulled me in close and we shared the mike, belting out the lyrics together. He had a lovely baritone voice, and we actually sounded pretty darned good together. Every time he hit the low note in the chorus, I felt a tingle down in my own low places.

We got a big round of applause, and the Fleeglemans stood up and hooted and whistled. I enjoyed it so much that I let Harry sign me up for another song later in the evening. This time I got to pick the song, and I invited Barney and Doris up with us to sing Weird Al Yankovic's classic Hardware Store. It's a pretty fast song, so I asked Barney if we needed to slow down the music. He said, "Nah, I got this."

We managed to more or less keep up with him until we got to the bridge. Then we all dropped out and let him take it as a solo. Barney absolutely nailed it (so to speak), and the rest of us joined back in for the final chorus. When we finished, the crowd went wild — especially when Barney leaned Doris down into a deep dip and kissed her up on stage.

===

Harry and I walked back to our rooms arm in arm. At the door, he doffed his hat, and I doffed mine right back. Then he pulled me in for a kiss. It was a great kiss, and we shared a few more.

I said, "You are a strange and lovely man, Harry McMurtry. This has been the best day I've had in years."

"Same here. Between the writing and the singing, it's been a wonderful day with you."

"Good night, cowboy."

"Good night, cowgirl."

One last, scorching kiss, and I went into my room. Alone. I went to sleep smiling and woke up the same way.

===

THURSDAY

===

PORTIA

After breakfast, we went back to my room and worked on our collaborative story until after lunch. We missed what was undoubtedly a captivating horseshoeing workshop, but writing with Harry was way more fun. Plus, I thought Betty might finally get off my ass! I had an idea of how to do just that.

The story was coming along nicely. Harry's original seven thousand words had grown to over twenty thousand. With the newly expanded story arc we had in mind, it might take another sixty thousand words to stick the ending properly.

It was coming along so well that I asked Harry if he would mind if I showed it to my publisher. He was surprised, but had no objections, so I emailed the draft we had so far.

A few hours later, we took a break. Harry headed over to the bar to grab a few soft drinks. While he was out, I was surprised to get a call from Betty.

"Hello?"

"Damn, girl! Looks like you got your mojo back!"

"You read that already?"

"It's what I do, sweets. I'll cut to the chase. I want it. Standard contract and advance okay with you?"

"Uhh... Well, no. I'm writing this with a new collaborator I met here at the ranch. His name is Harry."

"Co-laborator?" Betty said. "Is that the word you kids use today when you mean co-habitator?"

"Betty! No! No, no, no! We're not cohabitating — we're just co-writing."

"Can't fool me, honey. Your creative juices are flowing, and I'll bet other juices are as well.

I was getting a bit perturbed. "We've only known each other for a few days..."

"Get up off your fainting couch, Scarlett. That draft tells me that you two have quite a connection. A lot more than you ever had with... what was Fuckface's name, anyway?"

"Thadford."

"Thadford? Jeezus! A name that pretentious is one of Nature's warning signals. You should have run away from that asshole as soon as you heard his name. Thadford is the first name equivalent of a baboon's butt cheeks! But I digress."

"You sure did."

"So, how do you want to split the money for this book?"

"I'll have to talk it over with Harry first. But I want him to get at least fifty percent."

"Honey, you know that's not how it works. New writers -"

I cut her off. "Deal or no deal, Betty. I mean it."

"Ugh. Okay, I'll see what I can do. Harry's his name? Hah! Looking forward to meeting the man that got you to crawl back out of your pity cave."