I’m visiting Fresno this weekend. Between laundry, dishes, packing, and cleaning, I haven’t had time to settle on the point of view I want to tell my story from. It’s either going to be the mom’s, or the person who approaches the mom. I’m leaning toward the person who approaches the mom.
There’s also been no editing of a chapter in my novel tonight. Adulting takes altogether too much time. I like fantasizing about having enough money to pay someone to adult for me. All I have to do is write a bestseller. A solid business plan if ever I heard one.
This is a snippet of a possible scene from this story:
I frown at the mix of meaningless paraphernalia and pragmatic prose. How does it work? By all rights it shouldn’t. It doesn’t form a whole. It doesn’t form anything. It must be a trick. A front to cover what he’s really doing. But then where are the real ingredients, the real incantation?
“So you’re still a beginner, then.”
Before I can turn my bristling pride into words, he waves a dismissive hand and continues. “I was too, at your age. So caught up in the rules and metrics. Some are always beginners. The rest… Well, it takes a while for people to believe their own words may be powerful.”