Three months ago a world traveling writer returned to the U.S., to her home not far from where we live. When we re-connected, she requested a get-together to co-write. She felt she’d found her Voice at last.
For the writers among my readers, you know what that means. Voice is the key ingredient that makes your writing unmistakable to others. Your stamp, your authentic self revealed. No one can truly define it, but the famed Art Plotnik shared – via private message to me – that IT might, just might be connected to one’s inner smart ass.
Bingo! I have that attitude wired. In spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs. The clubs that one uses inwardly to kill off one’s critics, but never says aloud. Unspoken Sarcasm when Tact must be one’s spoken-aloud choice.
If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.
A mother’s mantra from the ’50s.
We began to meet weekly, a rite that ended a month ago when she and her husband, the self-professed vagabond, scurried away.
MIRACLE of Miracles, I had written to the mid-point of my book, CASH to DASH DOWN UNDER at the precise time that we re-kindled our relationship. A bonafide American who lived and worked in Australia for many years. A psychologist who’d worked as a consultant with the Sydney Police…where my male protagonist and his brother had just landed themselves after an ill-considered Aussie barhop.
A brawl with local rugby fans ensued. Have you ever seen a picture of one of those guys? Big and beefy, sometimes without teeth. The scrum of the earth.
My writer partner, miraculously re-inserted into my daily life, was enormously instrumental to the successful closure of my third novel, CASH to DASH DOWN JUNDER, and she swears I was vital to her memoir.
Reciprocal relationships are best.
Like the one I enjoy with OMG.