"The slow moving fan only made shadows of the light. 'Hank gazed at her across the linen tablecloth. The flickering candle highlighted her otherwise deep dark brown eyes. Her soft face seemed so fresh and warm, yet he knew the coldness of her heart. The waiter appeared and poured water, she never looked up but he scampered away as if in fear.'" Tennessee Williams cleared his throat.
"I like it, it smacks of "Cat."
He smiled and slipped the papers back into his briefcase.
James Joyce pointed a pencil at Williams, "You know you ought to complicate the plot; make your audience as miserable as your characters."
Williams frowned. "My readers perceive the misery, they don't have to live it."
"How can complacent society perceive misery when they have bulging wallets and pay ten quid for a book."
I tried to intercede, "Perhaps the price of the book is making them miserable."
My two guests ignored me.
"James, you must admit that the emotion of desperation certainly provides enough motivation for a reader."
Joyce shook his head. "The reader who hasn't been miserable has no right to empathy."
Williams stood. "You would make your reader miserable by opening your book."
Joyce pushed back his chair. "And, you make your readers miserable by finishing yours."
"Gentlemen, please." I tried to calm the storm.
The two writers left the room by opposite doors.
"Well, there goes dinner."
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Dub, I love how your imagination works. I doubt I know enough about my favorite authors to pull off such a conversation, but this sounds like fun.
Thank you, too, for finding my short story and leaving a comment. I always feel special when I see that "dub" took notice :)