Page 72 of Death on Riddle Road
Somehow.
The phone rang.
I knew in my bones who it was.Still, I checked the screen.
“Hi, Kit,” I answered.“Afraid I don’t have anything new and exciting to tell you.”
“How about one or the other.Anything exciting?”
Figured she’d start there.“Well, Teague is going to go ahead with the shelves in my office closet.”
“How’s that exciting?”She’d told him to, so—.“Of course he is.”
“It’s exciting to me.Even if I am after my neighbor on his priority list.”
She snorted skeptically.It was as if she’d witnessed our post-tugging moments.“Not so hot on the exciting.Hope you can do better with what’s new.”
I told her about our morning.
She wasn’t impressed with the new, either.
Might as well add to that.“And I’m sitting here not writing.Again.”Before she could respond, I added, “Someone recently reminded me I needed to be more patient.”
She snorted with derision, then immediately said, “Oh, do you mean with characters?Stories?Writing?Then, yeah, you need to be patient.”
That surprised me.
“Really?I don’t remember you ever recommending patience under any circumstances.”
“I don’t recommend it.It’s a pain in the — well, I don’t know where it’snota pain.But you don’t have a choice.You can’t push characters.If you do, they go stiff.You might move them, but it’s not pleasant for you or them or anyone watching.”
I had a sudden vision of my dog deciding she did not want to move and bracing all four legs, with her head ducked and her shoulders stiffened at the other end of a taut leash.
“I think I know what you mean,” I said slowly.
“Good.You don’t want to get your characters or your story into that state.”
“What if they already are?”I asked even more slowly.If the answer was toss out the story and start over—
“Back up,” she said.“Shake things up.”
I had a vision of gently shaking Gracie’s leash like a jump rope.I could do that.
“Throw something unexpected in, even if you don’t end up using it.LikeAnd then a bus crashed through the wall.”
I’d heard her say that, along with another phrase.And then they all died.
“Go on, Sheila.Back up in the story.Send a bus through the wall — figuratively or otherwise.Quit wallowing.From now until your lunch.”
She hung up.
I looked over at the dogs again.Still sleeping, still cute.
Without refocusing on the screen, I scrolled backward.Where my cursor landed, I typedAnd then a bus crashed through the wall.
I kept typing until it was time to pick up Clara.I hadn’t even run out of words yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY
