Will somebody please tell me what I’m writing?

This is about as close to gore and violence as I write in my novels.
This is about as close to gore and violence as I write in my novels.

THE MUSE CAUGHT ME staring into the darkness.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, At least you see what you’re looking at,” he said.

I couldn’t argue with that.

The Muse sat down on the patio and looked for a crease of sunrise in the sky.

He didn’t see one.

So he turned to me.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You got writer’s block.”

I shook my head.

“I have plenty to write,” I said.

“Then why aren’t you in there writing?”

He motioned to my office on the other side of the back door.

“I don’t know what I’m writing.”

He frowned.

I shrugged.

“Everybody has a genre,” I said.

“What’s yours?”

“Don’t know.”

“I thought you wrote mysteries?” he said.

“I thought I wrote thrillers,” I said.

“What’s the difference?”

“Mysteries solve a crime.”

“And thrillers?”

“They have an edge,” I said. “They’re a little more sinister. Thrillers have a dark side.”

“Your novels are pretty dark.”

The black of night had turned gray.

Morning was on its way.

“My novels don’t have a lot of violence,” I said.

“I’ve read them.”

I nodded.

“You do kill a few.”

I shrugged again.

“There’s not a lot of blood,” I said.

“Don’t need much.”

“There’s not a lot of gore,” I said. “I like the threat of violence more than the sordid acts of violence.”

We heard the mourning dove call.

Lost.

Lonely

And beautiful.

“How about sex?” he wanted to know.

“I’m in favor of it.”

“But do you write about it?”

“I always have a love interest in my novels,” I said.

“Everybody else is writing erotica,” he said.

“I let them walk in the bedroom and close the door,” I said. “We hardly ever go into the bedroom with them.”

The Muse sighed.

It was a disappointed sigh.

“So, there’s no explicit sex scenes,” he said.

“There’s an occasional kiss.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“It may not be enough,” he said.

“It’s all I got,” I said.

He sat in silence for a moment.

The mourning dove was closer now.

The dove was waiting for the sun.

“How about the language your characters use?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“Is it offensive?”

“There are a few hells and a damn every now and then.”

“No cursing?”

“Nothing bad.”

“No F words?”

“Not if I can help it.”

The sun touched the top of the trees.

The mourning dove was on the fence.

The Cardinals were at the feeder.

“Well, there’s your genre,” the Muse said.

“What’s that?”

“You don’t write mysteries.”

I arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t write thrillers.”

I waited.

“You don’t write romance.”

“So what do I write?” I asked.

“Flinch free fiction,” he said.

I flinched.

But nobody else would, and that might be a pretty good thing.

Caleb Pirtle III is the author of Little Lies.

Little Lies Final Cover LL Mar 13

 

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