Mrs. McCory waits for me in the community room. We have agreed to meet here, one half hour before our Writers Write! group is set to begin. Her behavior has all the hallmarks of an affair, with whispers, knowing glances, and feigned indifference around others.
She needs me alone. Why? It’s a secret.
But it seems these days I’m only needed for one thing. Writing advice. When I walk in Mrs. McCory has a manuscript spread before her. I want you to tell me what you think about me, she says.
“Isn’t that what the group is for?”
“I already know what they think.”
“I believe I’ve chipped in.”
“You have. But you’re a liar.” I said something light, such as all writers are liars. She’s not here for banter, and tired of roses and Hallmark cards. “I want to know right now. Do I have talent.”
“We all have talent.”
“Stop it.”
She pushes the ms. toward me. She writes crime fiction, and not cozies, either. A cozy is crime fiction that makes you feel good. You don’t feel good reading her, especially if you’re a man. Men die gruesome deaths in her novel-in-progress. Her protagonist is an attractive and perfectly presentable wife and mother. By day she bakes chocolate chip cookies. She’s a big cookie-maker. By night she prowls the mean streets of Glen Haven in a mini skirt and rabbit fur jacket, chewing Doublemint and packing a .38 special.
Looking over the pages, there are some immediate problems. The sample starts at Chapter 14. This is okay, but it’s the middle of the chapter. There are notes and instructions preparing the reader, describing motivations and characters who will not appear right away. Then it’s not one contiguous product, but makes an aside every three or four paragraphs, beginning again in a different location.
Her sample isn’t really ready for me, or anyone. I tell her this.
“But how can I write, without knowing if it works?”
Good point. Never discount motivation. I told her to take one chapter, whether it’s the first, or twenty-first, and turn it into a short story. Skip all the asides. Use standard manuscript preparation. I recommend Shunn, available online, as do many editors. Then write the story as though submitting to a crime or horror or even fantasy magazine (she’s been toying with goddesses and magic, not sure that’s going to work, but not my call). Many a writer, I told her, has broken through using this simple exercise.
Mrs. McCory is unsure. “I’d rather finish the novel.”
“If a story doesn’t work, a novel certainly won’t.”
It was tough love, but that’s what she wanted. I’d just seen a Bogart film, which may have affected my behavior. I leaned toward her.
“Look kid. Once you finish a story, we’ll meet again. Somewhere less public, with no possibility of being disturbed. Then I’ll tell you how I really feel. Don’t you want to know how I really feel?”
Our eyes locked. Her voice a whisper. “Yesss.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com