I find when I am reading nowadays that I read with the eye of a writer. I look for the hook. I look for the transition sentences and paragraphs. I look to see how the authors move the stories along. I look to see how they end a chapter. I no longer just read. Do you do the same thing?
But…but even so, I still love to read. And, I love to write. I really do. I cannot even imagine not writing. I wake up thinking about my characters. They follow me around all the time, tapping me on the shoulder, throwing ideas into my mind’s eye. And that is okay by me. They keep me company. They are my friends…even the dead ones.
The murder mystery I am working on is coming along nicely. It is on its second edit. Hopefully, it will soon be ready to be sent out into the world. That’s always a scary thought. The sending it out. What if no one likes it? What if it’s just not good enough? What if. Such wasteful words.
Here is the synopsis that I have put together. The elevator pitch. The back cover blurb. Tell me what you think. Would you read it? “There is a dead girl on the quiet, South Carolina Lowcountry island called Fripp Island. A dead girl in a bathing suit, coverup, and one pink flip-flop. The three women who discover her body are going to have the devil’s own time trying to find the killer while staying out of the way of the surly police detective. Although, the good-looking, helpful detective is an entirely different matter. Now, when the dead girl shows up and wants to help them find her killer, things really get out of hand. Throw in a kitten, an ouija board, an out-of-control golf cart, and a hermit, and the girls find themselves careening from one end of the island to the other, trying to outrun a desperate killer intent on keeping his secrets silent…and anyone who gets in his way.”
It’s hard to even put that much out into the world. Those wasteful words bounce around in my head trying to take center stage. The corners of my mind try to catch them, but those words can be so elusive, sometimes just a slight echo, other times a clanging gong. Maybe that’s why Hemingway drank. Not that I am comparing myself to Hemingway. Saints preserve. Never would I do that. The truth is that all writers put themselves out there – on display – naked – for the world to see. Is it craziness to do so? Maybe, but I prefer to think that it is brave.
So, today and every day, I bravely write, sometimes sending those words, those stories, my children, out into the world. Hoping the world will be kind just as I try to be kind when I am reading with that writer’s eye, thinking about all that went into that story…how brave that writer was.