The Glamorous Life of The Novelist

While I dither about hiring a model to pose for my book cover photo shoot, my living room is half stage-set, half sewing room, and all disarray. For test photo purposes, a mockup of the costume, made of Goodwill clothes, is pinned to the baroque-ified wingback chair on the borrowed Persian rug.

At the moment, “Tristan” is holding sewing supplies for me while I prepare to sew his real costume: a Regency-era poet shirt (from a percale sheet), a brocade waistcoat (from a scrap of upholstery fabric) and buckskin riding breeches from a pair of skinny-leg men’s jogging pants dyed yellow.

I probably won’t get the nerve to go scouting for an attractive, tall young man to pose with a riding crop in my living room until I’m thoroughly sick of this inconvenience.

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