A big dill
It’s really summer now. The bugs are drowning in our coffee and lemonade. I learned recently that maggots are baby flies. They hatch in our compost, birthing themselves from the rot and isn’t that an apt metaphor for the state of things?
I’ve been reading lots of good books but not many have stuck with me. I want to miss a book like a lover, even while I’m reading it.
Lucky was fun until 2/3rds of the way in, when the plot fell apart. It was like the author just gave up—or realized too late that she’d created a problem she couldn’t write her way out of. So she reached for the quickest, flimsiest rope. Lucky is a con artist book and I’m writing my own con artist book so I fear I’ll do the same thing, of course. The problems I’ve created are enormous—I haven’t yet done them justice.
But I’m working on it.
Want to help? I’d love to get some beta readers’ eyes on this. Hit reply if you wanna read a thriller threeway between a reluctant psychic, a romance novelist, a…