I wish you’d tell me how the story ends.
February 8, 2017
I’M FINISHING UP my new novel, Wrong Side of a Blue Moon, which will be part of JoAnna Grace’s Riverview Series.
It’s not quite like anything I’ve published in the past.
I write noir thrillers, set against the backdrop of World War II.
And sometimes I write psychological thrillers.
But always they are thrillers.
So why am I writing a romance?
And is it a romance?
The novel features a man.
And a woman.
Love is kindled.
Sex is implied.
I don’t write traditional sex scenes.
Here is my sex scene:
Love was the great tempter, the great liar, the great cheat. Love came with a rose in its hand and left with a dagger in its fist. She looked at Doc, and, in his eyes, she saw the rose. For one night, if that’s all she had left, she wanted to hold the rose. Damn the thorns. There was no tomorrow. There was only the night. She wanted more, but would there be more? Was Doc a forever man?
“Do you know the difference between a man’s first shot with a lady and his last?” Eudora whispered.
He backed her into the bedroom.
She closed the door.
By sundown, Doc had found out.
As I’ve said before, the reader’s imagination conjures up a scene more torrid than I could ever write on paper.
The reader’s imagination would probably make me blush.
When I sit down and begin a novel, I knock out the opening an the ending at the same time.
I always change the ending.
But at least I’m headed somewhere.
I didn’t like the ending to Wrong Side of a Blue Moon when I wrote it.
I knew it was bad.
It didn’t worry me.
When I got there, I would change it.
My characters knew the ending.
That’s what I believed.
I would just follow them and let them write a finish to the story.
I’m almost there
I’ll wind the novel up this week, so I sat down with my characters last night.
“Okay,” I said, “how’s it gonna end?”
Doc looked at Eudora.
Eudora looked at Doc.
Doc spoke for them both.
“We don’t have a clue,” he said.
“At least give me some ideas,” I said.
“Fresh out,” Eudora said.
“Do you live happily ever after? I wanted to know.
Doc shrugged. “Never have,” he said.
So here I sit.
Four more chapters, maybe five, and it’s over.
So what happens?
My mind is as blank as my screen.
Maybe that’s why I usually write thrillers.
One gunshot is as good an ending as the next.