Sunday Evening Post Iss. 16


I must confess. I killed a notebook.

It was a massacre: every page bloody with the ink of emptied pens. Lines so clear and convoluted at the same time, stories both rich with description and yet not enough. That notebook is physically heavier with the worlds on its pages.

It’s okay, I have more.

This week’s primary story, the one I spent the most time on, was about a few dumb college kids. Murder, fear, environmental influences, and at the heart of it, still human weakness. Coming in at just over 4000, I’ve had another really productive week. I haven’t felt any reason or need to change course and I’m not slowing down.

When I broke through that creative wall, my initial fear was that it was temporary. I’m petrified of relapse. I’ve always wanted to write, begged the universe to be able, but since 2015, I’ve struggled to find the right words. I worried that the gush of creative energy hitting my page at lightning speed was just a moment in the bigger picture of a life-long blockage.

I picked up the detective story again, the one with the body in the woods. When I last worked on it several weeks ago, I didn’t know why I included little details like lavender. I just knew they should be there and I’d worry about that later. I was still feeling blocked and any surge of words was not to be overanalyzed. Now I see that I subconsciously built clues into the crime scene.

It’s an indescribable feeling when a character figures something out before the writer does. When I’m able to write, this happens to me often: my characters are mostly autonomous and as long as I give them a general direction, they charge forward. They tell me which tools they need; they learn and grow.

I think this detective, Noelle, knows more about this case than I do. I’m hoping that’ll come in handy when it’s time to solve it because from this end, I don’t even know what the killer’s plan is. Why this victim? Why did this killer pose her this way, covered in silk flowers? Noelle already solved the mystery of the lavender and she’s speculating on the posture so I’m looking forward to watching her explain what the fake flowers mean. Sergeant Burke, Noelle’s boss, is a whole other can of baffling ambiguity.

I’m on Chapter 2.

Fiction projects: 2

Fiction words this week: 6000+

About the Author: Theresa Green is the co-founder of The Writer's Workout and a crime fiction writer.


© 2014-2020 The Writer's Workout 

Contact us!

The Writer's Workout is a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization.

Add us on AmazonSmile!