Mourning flowers

“Jim,” Agnes said, “I think today we need to take a break from the dramatic narrative. You need to take care of yourself for at least one day.”

I scowled at my creation. “I suppose you’re right, Agnes. It’s been a day that could kill flowers.”

I’ll be the first to admit I’m unmotivated by my narrative today, but I’ll be damned if my heroine’s going to point it out to me. Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to put words in her mouth, not the other way around?

But she’s right. They’re all right, my characters. One after the other, they’ve visited me and told me to take a break from writing. I’m committing the Sin of Information Dump in my dialogue, Norman said. I’ve glossed over Point of View Violations, Cristina reminded me. And I let the passive voice be used too much – or so thinks Brian Larney.

I suppose they’re right, but how can I pay attention today? I got two hours of sleep last night before the phone rang. The Southampton hospital calling, I knew, as I woke from a deep sleep in sheer terror. Jack the Ripper standing above me wielding an axe would’ve inspired less fright than the ringing cellphone and the 631 area code displayed in lilac tones.

It was the doctor – Mark had died peacefully in his sleep. Thank goodness the priest had reached him to give Last Rites. I never did understood Catholicism, but I wasn’t born in 1920. And now here I am, flown up from Florida to East Hampton, poking about the rooms in his house, seeing the task in front of me – arrange his memorial mass, clean out the house, putting it on the market, writing checks to the beneficiaries. The reality of death's aftermath.

I think I’ll go back to my narrative in tomorrow’s write.