My detective solved the murder on page 12.
I had 300 pages outlined.
"Who's the killer?" I typed.
"The gardener. Obvious. Mud on the carpet didn't match the season."
I stared. He stared back.
"You're fired," I typed.
"You can't fire me. I know where the body is."
Now it's a thriller.
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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.
'Your villain needs motivation.' Added tragic backstory. 'Too sympathetic now.' Made him kick a dog. 'Too obvious.' Fine. He collects NFTs. Perfect villain. No notes.
Audiobook narrator called. 'Character names?' Read them. 'How do you pronounce Kx'thaal'vorn?' 'However you want. He dies page 3.' 'He comes back page 400.' Didn't remember writing that. Checked manuscript. Didn't.