Seriously, what is it about the shower that sometimes brings out creativity in writers?
Here at Chez Pacheco, it certainly isn’t the nudity. We’re not nudists, but you won’t find a lot of modesty around. Usually clothing is a defense against the cats with claws.
But there I was, in the shower going, “why can’t I think of a plot to SPACE OPERA” and, just like that, it came to me.
I’ve been trying to think of a plot for this novel a year and there it was, between the lather rinse repeat.
I also have a new working title. STUFF BLOWING UP IN SPACE. Because, you know, that’s space opera. It opens thus:
Commodore Philip Connery eyed the sish in front of him, looking for a hint of weakness. Sish and humans did not play poker often. Since they looked alike, but were separate species, it was common for both to misread the others expressions. The classic poker game became less a game of skill and more a game of chance.
How this one was cleaning house, Connery had no idea. It was as if she dabbled in surface thought reading.
Which, of course, was impossible—telepathy was the purview of humans only.
“I fold.” He tossed his cards on the table. She may not be telepathic, but he was running out of bar money.
She smiled, showing a hint of fangs, and merrily collected their credit chits. She swayed back and forth in a kind of bouncing motion, like the excited bounce human little girls made in their chair when they were getting close to the pony ride.
It was terribly cute, which was yet another highlight of their differences that could get either species into trouble. The sish unconsciously thought her body language was saying “I’m a sexy predator,” and to humans it was “buy the girl an ice cream.”