“Is everything a chemical reaction to you?” he asked.
“Well, yeah,” Livy said. “Everything is a chemical reaction.”
“Not love,” Mack said
“Especially love,” Livy said.
Livy Tarbert, one of the cousins who inherit Great Aunt Ruby’s chocolate shop, is a chemist. She likes a good experiment, but before she sparks up her Bunsen burner, she’s already thought it through and assessed the likely outcomes. Science lets you do that.
But the comfort that comes from understanding the rules of the cosmos disappears when the chemistry is between you and your cousins. Or a talking parrot. Or a guy who seems to generate his own weather system. What is with that wind, anyway?
Sometimes chemistry explains everything. Sometimes the best you can do is shrug and admit that, really, it’s just another word for mystery.
Writing a book can be like that. With a plot outline and a table of archetypal characters, you can figure out ahead of time what you want to happen, what you think is going to go down. Then the chemistry takes over. Or mystery. Or magic.
Whatever you call it, it isn’t explainable by A + B = C. It’s more like C7H8N4O2 + C12H22O11 = Oh Yeah.
There’s chemistry in chocolate. There’s chemistry inside a story. There’s chemistry inside Livy’s story, in more ways than one.
And here’s a formula I discovered that’ll give you a taste of what happened behind the stained-glass windows of Red Gem’s:
Writing + chocolate + friends = a darn good time.
PS: C7H8N4O2 is how a chemist would write cocoa, and C12H22O11 is a scientist’s way of saying sugar.