Page 6 of Guys Can’t Write Romance

Chapter four

The Post-It Wars

Chad thought he had an idea of what to expect as he knocked on Daisy’s door that evening for their first writing session.

Judging by the way she organized her workspace at their writers’ group meetings, he was prepared to see a monument to hyper-organized excess.

Maybe an alphabetized spice cabinet, or color-coded calendar entries to remind her when to eat and sleep.

As it turned out, he wasn’t that far off.

They had texted that afternoon, trying to decide on a place to meet for these Mags’ enforced joint writing sessions.

Of course, they couldn’t agree on a spot, because…

well, it was Chad and Daisy. They finally decided to keep trying different spots until they found one that worked for both of them.

For reasons Daisy would later blame on temporary insanity, she said they could use her apartment that night. It would prove to be… interesting.

When the door opened, a barefoot girl stood there. She was about Chad’s age, in a paint-splattered apron, with blue hair wrapped in a kerchief.

Chad blinked. Not Daisy.

“Hey,” he said, hitching the straps on the backpack he had loaded with a ‘writer’s survival kit’ of energy drinks and snacks. “Does Daisy Fields live here?”

“You’re Chad,” the girl said, eyeing him with an amused look.

“Yeah. And you’re…?”

“Chloe. Resident roommate. Professional troublemaker. I was expecting to see horns.”

“Horns?”

“Yeah. You know, on your head, demon style.”

Chad grinned. “Oh. So Daisy told you about me.”

“Warned, actually. Let’s see… chaos-loving, horror movie guy with poor personal hygiene and probably a glove box of unpaid parking tickets.”

Chad smirked. “I had to take them out to get it to close. Did she say anything about me being a world-class writer with tons of potential and a charming sense of humor?”

“It was more like, ‘If I go missing, please call 911 immediately.’” Chloe snickered, stepping aside to motion him in. “Honestly, this should be fun. Welcome to the madness, Chad. Buckle your seatbelt.”

The first sign that Chloe wasn’t exaggerating came as they reached the opening to the kitchen and stepped in.

Chloe waved her arm around the room. “The first stop on our Daisy Fields House of Organizational Nuttiness Tour, Extreme Edition, is the kitchen exhibit.” She walked over to a cabinet above the counter and opened the door.

Inside the cabinet were perfectly aligned rows of spices, standing like soldiers in formation. Chad leaned in for a closer look.

“Holy crap,” Chad muttered. “Are they alphabetized?”

“Obsessively,” Chloe quipped. “It’s her Zen.”

“Does she scold them if they step out of formation?”

“They know better than to try. Then, there’s this.”

She stepped to the next cabinet and opened the door. Inside it were cups and glasses with labels stuck to them, marking ‘Daisy’s cups’ and ‘Chloe’s cups.’

“She has a label maker?” Chad said.

“Yup. In the drawer behind you. I’ve tried hiding it several times, but she always finds it. It’s spooky, actually.”

“She’s not gonna put a ‘Chad’s cup’ in there, is she?”

“I think you guys will kill each other before then, but you never know. Ready for the next exhibit?”

“How bad is it?”

“I’ll let you be the judge.”

Chad followed Chloe around the corner into the living room and immediately felt his fingers begin to twitch. At first glance, it looked like an Ikea showroom display of pastel-colored furniture neatly arranged. On second glance, it looked like a museum exhibit or science project.

“Wow,” Chad murmured, taking it all in as he wandered past a sleek sofa covered in throw pillows, each having a matching twin.

Framed paintings hung neatly on the far wall, perfectly aligned, with not a single edge out of place.

Beneath each painting, a carefully aligned label noted the painting and artist.

“Unreal,” Chad murmured.

His eyes then landed on a row of bookshelves. Each shelf was impossibly neat, with the books’ spines perfectly aligned, and organized not by author or genre, but by color. Labels, stuck to the shelves, noted which book color went where.

“Where’s the part of the exhibit where people actually live?” Chad said, continuing to take in the room.

Chloe chuckled, casually sitting on the sofa’s arm and opening a bag of potato chips. “You’re looking at it.”

“How does she write here? It’s like the furniture’s screaming, ‘Sorry, Mom, we’ll behave.’”

“You should’ve seen it before I moved in,” Chloe said, popping a chip into her mouth. “All it was missing was a wall map showing the furniture’s exact locations.”

Chad shook his head as he strolled along the coffee table, inspecting the neatly fanned stack of magazines, with the label ‘magazines’ stuck to the table below them.

Next to them was a small vase of flowers, which, of course, had a ‘flowers’ label below them.

“This is next level. Have you thought about staging an intervention?”

Chloe chuckled. This guy clearly got it. “Be my guest. It’s your life. Ready for the next exhibit?”

“There’s more?”

“Yup. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it yet. Turn around.”

Chad did, and was met by a wall of bright kaleidoscopic Post-It notes, covering it from floor to ceiling in precise columns and grids.

“You wanted the full neurotic tour. There you have it,” Chloe quipped, popping a chip in her mouth.

Chad’s eyes widened as he walked over to it.

Each note had meticulous handwriting for scene outlines, conflict arcs, characters, chapter goals, snips of dialog, and random plot notes.

Labels stuck to the wall above each column described what notes belonged in that column.

He let out a low whistle as he reached for a Post-It marked ‘Meet Cute.’

“All of this stuff is her book?” Chad said.

“Yup. I call it the wall of over-planning doom. It’s why I break out in hives every time she starts a new book.”

“I scribble my notes on the back of napkins,” Chad said.

“I figured it would be that or bar coasters.”

“I use those too.”

Chloe grinned, having already decided Chad was her favorite new toy to torment. She motioned toward a chair. “Maybe you should sit. I’m sensing imminent cardiac arrest vibes.”

Chad looked at the chair. “There’s no label saying ‘sit here’.”

“It came off a while back,” Chloe said. “I might have helped it a bit.”

Chad plopped down.

“So, what’d you think of the tour?” Chloe said. “And feel free to leave a review on Yelp.”

“You should warn kids that this is where God sends really bad people.”

Chloe snickered. “I like that. I might have to use it on the kids in my finger-painting class.”

“Is that what you do when you’re not giving tours of Daisy’s House of OCD Horrors?” Chad asked. “I’m definitely getting Bohemian artsy-fartsy vibes.”

“Pottery artist slash sometimes finger-painter,” she said. “More artsy, less fartsy. Think sleep-deprived creative genius with a high tolerance for weirdos. And you?”

“Horror writer, slash P.E. coach, slash bar sports Olympian. Think Daisy would notice if I moved a foosball table in here?”

Chloe popped a chip into her mouth. “I think she’d plot a really painful death for you.”

“Got it.” He looked back at the Post-It wall. Something about its meticulous arrangement just screamed ‘fix this,’ in the way a ‘wet paint’ sign screamed ‘touch this’ to first-grade boys (and probably Chad, too).

“I know how to fix this,” Chad said.

Chloe froze mid-chip. “Fix the Post-It wall of doom?”

“All of this,” Chad said. “It feels like a creative black hole.”

A mischievous gleam flickered in Chloe’s eye. “That’s probably my cue to get ready for work,” she said, rising from the couch. “If anyone asks, you tied me up and locked me in my closet. I’ll try not to laugh when she kills you.” And with that, she disappeared through a door across the room.

Daisy arrived home a short while later. As she entered the living room, juggling her tote bag and keys, she came to a sudden stop. The room was literally an explosion of colored Post-Its everywhere.

For a moment, Daisy just stared as her brain seemed to short-circuit. The tote bag dropped to the floor as she slowly approached the wall.

Every Post-It had been rearranged and new ones added, including one that read: ‘Dinosaur eats boring male lead.’ It was in a new column labeled: ‘Boring male lead stuff.’ Next to that was a new column labeled: ‘stuff that needs to be de-Daisy’d.

’ Over in the ‘meet cute’ section was a shoot-out in a car chase.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the refrigerator door through the opening to the kitchen. Post-Its now formed the word ‘Hi’ on it. She marched into the kitchen then froze in horror when she saw her spices arranged on the counter to form ‘SOS.’

Daisy’s lips curled in a growl. She marched back into the living room where her soon-to-be-deceased writing partner sat lazily on the couch, pretending to read a magazine.

Then she noticed the wall behind him, where this demon-spawn had tilted her paintings just enough to make her break into a cold sweat.

And as for her once color-coordinated bookcase, every book had been rearranged haphazardly.

“What. Did. You. Do?” Daisy hissed, her hands clenching into fists.

Chad peeked over the top of his magazine. “Oh. Hey, you’re home. You like what I did with the place?”

“No! I hate it! Put it back!”

“Even the dinosaur subplot?”

“Especially the dinosaur subplot. Put it back!”

“But that’s the best part. And trust me, your readers will cheer when your boring male lead gets eaten. I might even read it.”

Daisy folded her arms across her chest and frowned. “My male leads are not boring. They’re sophisticated and mature. Unlike some people.”

“Fields. Everyone but your mom thinks they’re boring. And she probably does too. This gives the guy some life.”

“Inside a dinosaur’s stomach.”

“Maybe we can have him get stepped on instead.”