Book signing. Line of three people.
Fan approaches. Trembling with excitement.
"I loved the death scene!"
"Thank you. Which one?"
"Chapter 12. When Sarah—"
"Nobody dies in my book."
Fan's smile: frozen.
"Sarah doesn't die?"
"Sarah doesn't exist."
Fan clutches a different book. Not mine. Same cover.
Almost same cover.
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Beta reader: "Who's Kevin?" Me: "Who's Kevin?" *searches manuscript* Page 47. He just appears. Introduces himself. Has three scenes. I have no memory of writing Kevin. Kevin has a backstory now.
Anton Chekhov said if there's a gun in act one, it must fire in act three. My gun: introduced page 1. Never mentioned again. Pure suspense. Reader still waiting. Book ended in 1987.
Chapter ending: cliffhanger. Chapter 2 ending: cliffhanger. Chapter 3 ending: cliffhanger. Chapter 47: protagonist still falling. I forgot to catch him.
Publisher meeting. 'Your book needs more conflict.' 'It's a cookbook.' 'The eggs should suffer.'
Writing retreat roommate also writes. 5am: typing. Noon: typing. Midnight: typing. Me: zero words. Roommate: 47,000 words. Checked roommate's screen. Same sentence. For three days. Copying it.