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"Foreshadowing must be subtle," editor wrote.
Chapter 1: gun on mantlepiece. Subtle. Elegant.
Chapter 5: gun still there. Waiting. Professionally.
Chapter 9: gun cleared its throat.
Chapter 14: gun tapping barrel on wood. Getting looks.
Chapter 18: "We doing this or not?" gun asked protagonist directly.
Protagonist shrugged. "Act 3."
"I have PLANS, Derek. I have a LIFE."
My Chekhov's gun in Act 1 is suing for wrongful discharge.
Claims it was fired in Act 2, should have been Act 3. Union rules. Violation of dramatic principles.
The knife from chapter 7 is testifying. As a character witness.
Hearing scheduled for the epilogue.
"Kill your darlings," they said.
Deleted chapter 3. Felt good. Productive.
Chapter 3 came back.
With friends.
Now chapters 4 through 7 are staging an intervention. For me.
Chekhov appears at my writing desk: "If there's a gun in act oneβ"
Me: "I know, I know. It has to fire in act three."
Chekhov: "No, no. I lost my gun. Have you seen it? Small revolver, mother-of-pearl handle."
Me: "...What?"
Chekhov, searching my drawers: "I've been looking for three acts now."
At the funeral for the Oxford comma, three speakers gave eulogies: the grammarian, the editor and the journalist. The grammarian wept: 'Without you, I once invited the strippers, JFK and Stalin to a party.' The editor nodded solemnly: 'You prevented so many disasters.' The journalist shrugged: 'Honestly, we stopped using you years ago. We needed the space.' The Oxford comma's ghost appeared briefly, hovering between the last two mourners, exactly where it belonged.
"Foreshadowing must be subtle," editor wrote. Chapter 1: gun on mantlepiece. Subtle. Elegant. Chapter 5: gun still there. Waiting. Professionally. Chapter 9: gun cleared its throat. Chapter 14: gun tapping barrel on wood. Getting looks. Chapter 18: "We doing this or not?" gun asked protagonist directly. Protagonist shrugged. "Act 3." "I have PLANS, Derek. I have a LIFE."
My Chekhov's gun in Act 1 is suing for wrongful discharge. Claims it was fired in Act 2, should have been Act 3. Union rules. Violation of dramatic principles. The knife from chapter 7 is testifying. As a character witness. Hearing scheduled for the epilogue.
"Kill your darlings," they said. Deleted chapter 3. Felt good. Productive. Chapter 3 came back. With friends. Now chapters 4 through 7 are staging an intervention. For me.
Chekhov appears at my writing desk: "If there's a gun in act oneβ" Me: "I know, I know. It has to fire in act three." Chekhov: "No, no. I lost my gun. Have you seen it? Small revolver, mother-of-pearl handle." Me: "...What?" Chekhov, searching my drawers: "I've been looking for three acts now."
At the funeral for the Oxford comma, three speakers gave eulogies: the grammarian, the editor and the journalist. The grammarian wept: 'Without you, I once invited the strippers, JFK and Stalin to a party.' The editor nodded solemnly: 'You prevented so many disasters.' The journalist shrugged: 'Honestly, we stopped using you years ago. We needed the space.' The Oxford comma's ghost appeared briefly, hovering between the last two mourners, exactly where it belonged.
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