I fixed yesterday’s problem by adding half a page where the heroine confirms to the other characters exactly what she’s been thinking. The reader has it figured out already, but the hero hasn’t. When he does, he gets mad.
I took some time off today to look around at Antique Rose Emporium. I go every few months, just to look around. Today, the musk roses were blooming, and they smelled wonderful.
Dancing With the Stars is on. That buys me more writing time this evening. I’ll never get the girls to bed tonight. When I do, Cherry and Coco will be jitterbugging in their sleep.
Later: Coco called it the jigglebug.
I had a hard time getting started this morning, so Bacon took the girls and I to brunch. I came home and worked from noon until 4:00. That was when I got to a note in the middle of page six that said TRANSITION. Usually, this means I add a few lines to get from Point A to Point B.
Not this time. I didn’t agree with the thing the character was getting ready to do, so I went to the supermarket. I came home an hour later with groceries. Then, I sat down again and read the end of the scene. I have two choices:
- Write the scene the way I planned, adding two lines of transition connecting Point A with Point B.
- Rewrite the last three pages to reflect how I believe the heroine would really react after surviving the first 2/3 of the story.
Hmm. I guess I’ll be working on these pages again tomorrow.
Yesterday, I had a medical procedure that was uncomfortable and took too long. I’ll spare you the details. It’s too much information. But, I learned that my doctor and I are more a like than we are different.
She’s close to my age, has a daughter, doesn’t get to the hair salon or shave her legs as often as she knows she should. She worries about the price of things, and the materialism of the holidays. She once had a miniature schnauzer she adored.
All of these things could be said about me, except I’m on my third schnauzer. I’ve adored all of them.
We’re both older moms, who married our true loves later than most. She lost her dad last year. Me too. She still mourns. So do I. She wants my recipe for fresh cranberry sauce.
We’re more alike than different despite that I’m white and she’s black, that I write romance novels and have an education degree in a frilly subject, and she’s a doctor with a specialty.
This morning I realized I found my reader. She’s a smart woman, who needs to laugh, who needs to see the heroine win the big happily-ever-after prize, who needs a few minutes of escape from responsibility, just like me.
Yesterday, while compromised and uncomfortable, I discovered who I was writing for. I like her.