^The Authors’ Atrium

I read Poe’s thread. All of it, when I should’ve been writing.

I’d like it noted that I don’t ask rhetorical questions. “Is the absence of common sense a trait I should be using in my work?” I wouldn’t ask because I wouldn’t need to.

I read it too. Bronte, with respect, he had you. He had all of us.

That “landlord” joke had me wanting to pay him for trademark infringement.

Hawthorne’s floor plan. Alcott’s lunch. Dumas and his weapons. I wanted to be angry. I was mostly jealous.

I’d like to clarify that I don’t draw floor plans. I annotate existing ones. That’s an entirely different discipline.

Fine. If it’s so easy, do it. Write the rest of us. A whole conversation, one post, no help. If it’s easy, it’ll be good.

You first.

Here’s how it’s done.

Hawthorne: “A recent study showed that when first picking up a work of fiction, the majority of women will skim for love scenes first.”

Twain: “I’d write a love scene, but I’d have to leave the room.”

Dumas: “I always skim for the fights. Then the love scenes.”

Twain: “Do you toss a coin when a scene features both?”

Dumas: “No. I take notes.”

Watch and learn.

Bronte: “You’re all fools.”

Hawthorne: “Would you please clarify?”

Bronte: “Yes. You’re all fools. And Dumas is the grandest fool.”

Dumas: “Pistols at dawn?”

Bronte: “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Adios, idiots.”

Hawthorne: “I didn’t get a good reading on how much nonsense was enough for her. I’ll have to pay closer attention, next time.”

I took longer, because I wanted to be thorough.

Bronte: “As a woman, I have something important to say that nobody is responding to adequately.”

Twain: “The inadequacy is entirely your own.”

Dumas: “I find myself to be more than adequate.”

Bronte: “I’m sure you do, Dumas. And that’s enough for you.”

Twain: “Bronte pretends to want to stay on-topic but is often the first to go off-topic. Like a dog that spotted a squirrel.”

Quick one.

Bronte: “Twain, you wouldn’t know what to say to a woman if god herself was whispering in your ear.”

Twain: “What was that? I wasn’t listening.”

Hawthorne: “I calculate that the odds of Twain being verbally assaulted is 93%.”

Bronte: “You’re next, Hawthorne.”

Twain: “There is a 100% chance I will be quiet now.”

Bronte: “Anybody else want to join the fray? Come get some.”

I didn’t write how Twain sounds. That’s how I think Twain sounds. They’re different things, and I hate it.

Also, does everybody think I’m some sort of man-hater?

I just scripted Bronte insulting people. Insulting people isn’t Bronte. The insulting is what happens after she’s run out of correct answers. Which is why it seems like she’s always insulting people.

Still. Mine’s a scratch, no re-rack.

And no, I don’t think you’re a man-hater. I think you’re angry about something, but men are just the frosting on that unpleasant cake.

I’ll take it, I guess. Small miracles still count.

I feel as though I had the timing, but the words didn’t match.

If it’s any consolation, Bronte, I pictured you in leather armor as I wrote my exchange. Not in the fantasy art armor, but the authentic period armor.

I think Hawthorne’s right. He got the rhythm, but the notes were wrong.

My overall attempt wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t accurate.

I’m surprised to say that I’m flattered by your explanation, Dumas.

I guess none of us won.

Something just occurred to me.

Poe has been kicking the hornets’ nest for as long as I can remember.

He starts fights, he tests us, he writes us in his own voice.

What if he’s studying conflict and characters by stirring us up? Watching how we talk when we’re cornered? Martial arts masters say you can’t know a man until you see him fight, and better still when you fight him yourself.

Maybe we’re getting played while Poe’s getting material?

Poe doesn’t study. Poe lights a match to see who flinches.

Dumas, you just gave the man a motive. With yours and the one he already had—he has one motive.

I would suggest that the evidence supports a pattern, not a motive.

Poe’s pattern is “being annoying.” Case closed.

Certainty in the face of an opponent can bring destruction just as often as victory.

Did you get those fortune cookies with your dim sum, Dumas?

Also, nobody tried Alcott.

I tried. Four times. In the first three attempts I wrote she offered me a warm brownie and a glass of milk. In the fourth she banned me.

At least you understood that assignment.