by Jackie King
I’ve been a huge
Anglophile most of my life. Early in life I fell in love with that country upon
discovering Agatha Christie’s delightful mysteries. One of the phrases she
often used, and I particularly liked was, “ I’m at sixes and sevens...”
There was never any
reason to look up this bit of colloquial vocabulary, because whenever Dame
Agatha used the phrase I always knew exactly what the character meant: A state of confusion and disorder.
I’m in such a state
of flux right now. Or, may I say, “I’m all sixes and sevens.”
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| I'm at sixes and sevens i.e. A state of confusion and disorder |
My third Grace
Cassidy mystery THE CORPSE AND THE GEEZER BRIGADE, is in the hands of my beta
readers. My emotions are raging:
Relief: Yay! I finally have a draft good enough to
go out in public all by itself.
Anxiety: What if these avid readers hate my story;
are confused by the plot; bored by the dialogue?
Hope: That my novel will amuse and entertain. And also,
(perhaps) earn a few royalties to help pay my always rising rent.
Any sensible person
would take this time to relax and celebrate. And I’m doing some of that (along with much hand-wringing.) I’m
also interviewing other possible characters who traipse through my mind and
make smart-aleck remarks. One is an older woman (like me), living in a
retirement center with other oldies, except they will be stumbling over a few bodies now and
then.
Of course she will
have middle-aged children and young-adult grandchildren. One of them will
probably be police officer. I may make one a firefighter. This is the part of
writing that’s wonderful fun.
Grace Cassidy, my
current character, really needs a vacation so she can settle into the new
relationship in her life with Sam Harper. And new imaginary friends are as much
fun as old ones. I can hardly wait for them to fully develop so I can lead them
into murder most foul.
A further
complication in my life just now, is that I’m in the process of moving from one
independent living facility to another. (A raise in rent threatened my
financial comfort zone, so I must move on.) With the help of my youngest
daughter, I’ll fold up my (writing) tent and steal away into the night.
Probably not quietly, though.
My new pad will be slightly
smaller than my present apartment. I’m learning to do what metropolitan
dwellers have long done; move needed storage upward. One of my sons-in-law has
been volunteered (note the verb tense) to put storage shelves above my desk for
the many things I seem to need. (Smart children, acquired both by blood and by
marriage, are true gifts from God.)
I didn’t want to
move. I have made friends and grown roots where I am. But stuff happens.
The wonderful thing
about being a writer is that we can work continually and in all situations.
Lying in bed, sitting in a chair, driving—wherever. So I remind myself that all
of the hand wringing I tend to do is both optional and unproductive. Perhaps I should give up the hand-wringing? After all, it is optional in a writer's life.
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| Book 1 in Series |
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| Book 2 in Series |
