Frustrated writing
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
Ernest Hemingway

There have been some interesting developments here in Murderville. I am sick and tired of stopping every third sentence wondering whether there were sidewalks in a particular part of Chicago, or how telephone calls were transferred, or how stockings were mended in 1920. Despite my fairly sizable library of All Things Flapper Era, I am bogged down in the dullest sort of minutia and it is killing me. Because I DO NOT CARE. I want to make it up as I go and tell the story. I do not want to worry about scathing criticism from some anal-retentive history buff who did a doctoral thesis on Mending Stockings in the 1920’s to tell me that I got it wrong.

I blame this all on on Hank Phillippi Ryan. I just finished reading The Other Woman (Jane Ryland) and it was everything I want in a book. Fast pace, plot twists, interesting ending. And I understand how everything works technology-wise.

To my surprise, my muse is doing the happy dance. She informs me she never wanted to play in the ’20s anyway. She wants the characters to have cell phones and computers and good wine.

The shift was not difficult. Same basic story, similar characters, new setting, new time, modern focus. And so much easier to have a darker, gritter tone. I am only the “mad” part of “madcap.” Light and fluffy – not so much.

And now the protagonist can join the muse and me in a glass of wine.

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