Falling Prose

I fell down today. Nothing major, but enough to create a few ooky places on my body. My husband doctored up the worst of them. I have to admit, I felt special under his ministrations.

To The Fall: Morning newspaper in hand, my thoughts were focused on whether or not there was a hole in the bottom of the bag. You just can't use a bag as a doggie pooper-scooper if there's a hole in it, ya know? So I was doing a thorough inspection—especially since I don't currently have a doggie to scoop up after, and my donated newspaper bags are for a friend.

Our front courtyard area has a couple of steps leading up to the door, so in my mind, I placed my foot on the first step. Not. Balance lost, I took a tumble with a wrought iron chair, right on top of some wood chips.

Two thoughts blasted through my head during the fall. First, "You can get your balance. This isn't bad." Followed immediately by, "People are still sleeping. Fall quietly." The second thought is what made me give up on any hope of recovery. I remember grabbing the chair as it fell with me to make sure it didn't scream out in agony. After all, I was determined to be mute. The chair was not gonna squeal the deal.

So, to stay on topic . . . I know I've tried to get away with writing things I thought I could regain balance with later. Or, if the words I wrote were downplayed enough, no one would notice. Thankfully, my critique partners take out their pseudo-wood chips and slice me up ever so gently. No bandages or anti-bacterial cream required.

Writing needs to be TIGHT. No secrets. No do-overs. There is no such thing as putting something over on a reader. Unless the fall has something to do with the character or the plot . . . delete it.

I just wish I could delete my owies.


Still reading the Michael Connelly. Not bad.

It's all better with friends.