This is the original prologue to the first Jesse Donovan mystery, That She is Made of Truth. With all the changes in the book and the character over the past 3 years, it no longer fit. But like any good writer, I can’t bear to just throw words away. Like any good editor, I don’t see anyplace I’ll ever use them, either. So, how about here?
You’ll want to sing that title to the tune of, um, something that fits. I don’t know what. I just know it’s better if you sing it.
He also asks me hard questions.
And yes, I’ve said it before: no art is ever finished, but at some point you have to be done.
Unless you’ve built a car with no brakes or a chair without legs.
My omission was less obvious, but still critical. I always run my manuscripts through a marvelous tool called AutoCrit before throwing them over the transom to Tom’s office.
Best Beloved has been patiently listening as I rummage through piles of notes, paper and digital, to list every single task left to get Anodyne ready for my editor. Once that’s done, I estimate the level of time and effort for each, we lay out a work plan for all the tasks, and I go to work.
Minor excitement on Sunday: Isaac Ransom called. Isaac hired me when I finished school, taught me how to make a living as an accountant. Not just how to get paid, how to put something in the bank so later when you turned your whole life upside down you could still afford a classy loft in a ritzy neighborhood.
“Heard you were back on the market, Jess.”
“Heard where?” I knew better than to ask, but maybe he’d softened in his old age.
“Around. Sure. Anyway, not sure what market I’m back on, Izzy.”