My
husband is a detail oriented person. As a medical professional, he
has to be. It amazes me, however, what details his analytical,
scientific mind will latch onto when he reads my novels. He'll read
the entire story and start demanding clarification. Some of it I've
thought of, other things I make up, glad of my improv experience,
because I honestly hadn't thought of it.
It's
not unusual for me to make up some BS answer out of thin air just to
get him to quit asking. Sometimes, if the subject really interests
him, he'll expand on it to the point where I'd pay real money just to
get him to shut up.
Often,
these sessions are helpful, clarifying those nebulous ideas that I
hadn't fully considered. A typical exchange:
"Have
you thought about insert random weird concept?" he asks
me.
"The
readers don't need to know that," I reply, somewhat miffed.
"But
it's interesting. You could...."
"Yes,
maybe, but why? It's not the least bit important. Why do you do
that?"
"Do
what?"
"Ask
about the most unimportant elements?"
"I
don't do that. Now, what about...?"
He's
gradually learning not to ask what I'm working on because ninety
percent of the time it's something I haven't told him about. I
shuffle projects and might work on a dozen different stories in a
week. I love the fact that he's interested, but I don't always want
to stop what I'm doing and explain what the book is about.
Once,
in a weak moment, I told him about one of my unpublished novels where
the psychotic ex-wife of the hero breaks into the heroine's
apartment, shaves her cat and duct tapes it to the hood of his car.
Yes, it's messed up, but the neighbors find the cat a short time
later, call the police and take the cat to the vet. I mention in
passing that the cat is at the vet's and he's fine. I read the
passage to him, pleased with how well it came together.
NEW
AT LOVE
"Someone
broke into your place, Mandy."
"My
– what?"
Pale
and shaking, she leaned against Derrick for support. He and Jasper
helped her sit on the bench just inside the entry way.
"Why?
What did they do in there?"
"They
took your cat," Jasper said quietly.
"What?
Muse? Where is he? Is he okay?"
"Yeah.
He's okay. We sent him to the vet. Someone shaved him and taped him
to the hood of Derrick's car."
"My
car? Why the hell would they do that?"
"I
was hoping you could tell me."
Apparently,
there wasn't enough information for my husband. "What happened
to the cat?" He asked when I got to the end of my explanation.
"What?
Which cat?"
"Amanda's
cat, Muse. What happened to him?"
"He's
at the vet's. I said that. He's fine."
"But
you don't mention him again."
"So?
You don't even like cats. Why are you worried about the cat?"
"I
was curious."
"Forget
the cat. He's fine!"
"Whatever
you say, baby." There's a long pause, to the point where I'm
busy again and have forgotten about the conversation. "You
really need to clear that up."
"Clear
what up?"
"The
part about the cat...."
The
point I'm making is that little details, things we forget about or
think are inconsequential, can bother our readers if left unresolved.
My husband, who positively loathes cats, was worried about Muse to
the point that it detracted from the climax of the story. So I gave
him a little more to help satisfy him
When
Amanda opened the cat carrier door, Muse came out. He looked
hopelessly thin in his shaven state, but rubbed against Derrick as
happily as ever. Amanda looked inside the carrier.
"Where's
your friend?" she asked Muse.
The
cat, as if he understood her, went to his carrier, nosing at the
door, mewing softly. An answering mew came from inside the carrier.
"He
made a friend at the vet's. They were both traumatized and the little
one latched onto Muse. He comforted her, wasn't that sweet?"
She
reached into the carrier, gently pulling out a small, scrawny white
cat with blue eyes.
"She's
beautiful, Amanda. What did you name her?"
"Aphrodite.
I couldn't resist."
Muse
hopped into Derrick's lap as he lounged on the couch with Amanda
snuggled next to him. Aphrodite leaped prettily into her lap, turned
three times and settled into a comfortable mound of white fur.
I'm
not suggesting that every reader is quite so easily misdirected as my
husband, but some are. Those are the people we have to satisfy by
tying up the loose ends. Make sure the subplots are resolved. Give
enough of an explanation that it sticks with the reader. Keep
distractions to a minimum so that the thread of the story isn't lost
along the way. A few moments spent on housekeeping will prevent the
inevitable question: "What happened to the cat?"
©
Dellani Oakes 2015
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