Page 71 of Death on Riddle Road

Then I thought of another antidote to branching possibilities.“And the dogs.”

“True.”

He grinned up at me.I grinned down at him.

He took my hand and tugged me down toward him.

He didn’t have to tug hard.

The result of the tugging didn’t last long — certainly not long enough.Teague had to get to the hardware store, then back to the sheriff’s department.

And I had to get ready for lunch and another session with those branching possibilities.

****

I decided toshower first.

Had nothing to do with avoiding writing.

Just better to make sure I was ready for lunch.

I’d think about my characters wrestling with their pasts, presents, and futures on Lattimore Mountain while I showered.Running water could do wonders for the writer’s brain.

...Except I found myself practicing the words I’d say when Teague and I could have our talk, hoping I’d find ones that would still have him looking at me as he had a little while ago and wanting to tug me to his side.

I was showered, dressed, and in front of the computer.

Words came to me.But not ones that belonged in this story.

A dozen possibilities branching out with a dozen possibilities at the end of each branch and some of those branches crossing over to touch others, until they leave your head buzzing with the tangle.

Teague’s words described exactly where I was.With him.With Derrick and Jaylynn.With the writing.

I couldn’t go out and garden.The dogs were curled into each other, sound asleep on Gracie’s bed, and that was cute, but not nearly distracting enough to quiet my brain.

Writing did that for Kit.Why not for me?

Did that mean I couldn’t be a writer?

No, I said staunchly to myself.

Then the staunch melted into the goo of doubt.

I’d started this work in progress with great hopes because I heard and saw the two characters having a disagreement.

My other efforts at writing started with a detailed outline.And each died before arrival.

Not only hadn’t I finished them, I wished it was the old days of typed manuscripts so I could bury them in the deepest, darkest bottom drawer of a cabinet relegated to the basement.Hiding computer folders didn’t have the same impact.

But now these characters had clammed up, refusing to even whisper their inner selves to me.

Shouldn’t a writer be able to pry open the characters?

And if I couldn’t be a writer, what was I going to do with myself?

Sure, Gracie thought a full-time petter was a fine occupation and, yes, it did reduce my blood pressure as well as those other branching possibilities.But I feared it would be a race to see which happened first, my brain turning to mush or my blood pressure flatlining from being entirely stress-free.

Kit could help me with these wretched characters.As I said, she’s an accomplished career novelist.But I need to figure out how to do this on my own.