Hi,
I'm just 34,756 words into my current novel and I've hit a problem, I've decided that I need a nice quarrel at this point in the story, something passionate, about things that matter to the protagonists. But the problems I have with it are 1) I need the two of them to stay together, i.e. they don't kill each other and 2) I'm obviously crap at writing quarrels.
This is what I have at the moment, and this is really just a discussion, not a quarrel at all:
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Annette watched Stephen fidgeting with his pencil on the notepad where he'd been working something out.
She was doodling in her own small sketchbook. Not because she was working, but just because she felt most comfortable, most relaxed, with sketch pad and pencil either in her hand or within easy reach. Just in case a workable idea should brush against the surface of her mind, as they sometimes did. If she had to search for pad and pencil, by the time she found them, the idea would be ash, the gentle relaxing mood gone, smouldering frustration in its place.
She let her pencil caress the air above the pad, while the feeling of a shape solidified in her mind, as it did so, she let the pencil contact the surface of the pad, transferring vision to paper. It was still just a doodle but as she played with more ideas, she became aware of Stephen's regard. He still fidgeted with his pencil, but now he also watched her, as if plucking up courage or gauging the best time. The gentle mood was slipping away from her, and her shoulders tensed to meet what she knew was coming.
Stephen looked away, out of the window.
"The window frames on the ground floor of the west wing are rotting away," he said before looking back at her.
"So? I hope you're not expecting me to fix them."
"You've got the money."
"Yes, money I worked hard for, money I intend to use to help build my business."
"It wouldn't take much from what you've got, to fix up a few windows. Your business is leaping off on its own."
"A few!" she put her pencil down on the pad with a snap. "There are twenty windows on the ground floor of the west wing. Anyway, your problems with Ashby Manor are more than just a few windows. It needs to be self sufficient. And it just isn't, it's more like a money pit. I don't want to pour money I've worked hard for into a bottomless pit where I'll get no return for it."
"You will get a return for it, the satisfaction of saving a work of art."
"I make my own art, thank you."
"But you can't deny artists that came before you can you? You used to rave about some of them when we were at Uni." Stephen got up abruptly and began pacing up and down the room. "This is my home that we're talking about, my family have lived there for generations, history has been written there," he stopped in front of Annette as she sat with her notepad on her knee, her expression tranquil but firm. She looked, not intractable, but just uninterested.
He paced away from her, his frustration a burning presence between them. Annette looked up at a small pencil sketch placed low on the wall in front of her. It was one of her earliest efforts. The beginning of the design that had won her the award that kickstarted her whole career. She took a deep breath.
"Look, if you want to keep Ashby Manor you have to create a business plan for its future. You have to have some idea of how it will be self supporting. You can't expect anyone, a bank, a business, me; to just give you money. There has to be some return, a future, growth, something," she looked at Stephen with frustration. She had no particular love for Ashby Manor, but then she didn't hate it either. But she couldn't say what she really felt; that Stephen would be better off without it, it hung round his neck like a millstone, draining all the brilliance and impetus from him. Even his surgical career wasn't going anywhere any more, he was now just marking time. And why couldn't she tell him these things? Because Stephen loved Ashby, and because despite herself, she loved him.
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Help? How can I ginger this up?
Fran



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