I am frantically making yet another editorial pass at my manuscript to get it ready to submit to the Copyright Office. I cannot believe the writing oversights, but here we are at edit #99, and I am still finding glaring errors. Take, for instance, this scene: ----- Over the coming days, Leslie began arrangements for Arlinda to fly to Cleveland to continue treatment at the Cleveland Clinic. With other family members around, there would be more opportunities to share the duties of supporting Arlinda through her treatment. The commitment it would take to help her prompted more people to be by her side and might provide the encouragement she needed to overcome this most recent turn in her health. They were going to arrange the flight for Friday, the 18th. When Leslie gave Rob the news, his face went still, that familiar shutdown spreading from his temples down through his jaw. His shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly. His mind retreated to calculations to contain what he was trying to process. /Cleveland. 2,300 miles. Five-hour flight. Three hours’ difference./ The facts assembled themselves like a protective barrier against the tightness spreading across his chest. Maybe that is what emotions feel like, when the throat suddenly goes dry. He looked past his own selfish desires to determine the benefits the move could provide Arlinda. He tried to prioritize her needs over the prospect of his loneliness. ----- The scene starts, focused on Leslie. But Leslie does not have a POV in the manuscript. This scene is in Rob's point of view. I like to train my readers whose POV it is by mentioning that character's name first. Bonus points for having them speak first; it gives them more agency in the scene. In the edit, I moved sentences around, and set it squarely in Rob's POV: ----- Rob heard Leslie tell him the family was looking into flying Arlinda back to Cleveland so she could get the most advanced cancer care through Cleveland Clinic. They were arranging the flight for Friday, the 18th.

All of the release forms have come back. Next step, the Copyright office, and then a-publishing we will go!

BRINGING CLARITY TO YOUR MESSAGE

Last night over supper I was discussing my novel-in-progress, and its title. (It's available chapter-by-chapter here on Skool). My son-in-law came up with a brilliant alternative to A Taste of Deceit. He suggested A Taste of Blood. Which do you prefer? Here's an overview of the (second) draft: On a magnificent farm outside Johannesburg, celebrated feminist cook Serendipity Brown is ready to serve a dish of total reckoning. It has been years since her abusive, narcissistic husband, Richard, vanished without a trace, leaving her penniless but finally free. Now, to celebrate the prelaunch of her latest cookbook, she has orchestrated an intimate series of cookery demonstrations, hand-picking an audience of just four strangers. Unbeknownst to them, each guest hides a toxic connection to Richard’s corrupt past. From an arrogant ex-restaurateur to a preening food blogger, they are drawn into a masterfully arranged narrative trap. Also in attendance is Jack Sutherland, a down-on-his-luck journalist desperate for a career-saving scoop. As Jack digs into the mystery, an unexpected, fiery romance ignites between him and the magnetic chef amidst the mounting tension. But in a house built on ghosts and gaslighting, the truth cannot remain submerged forever. Equal parts culinary masterpiece, suspenseful thriller, and love story, A Taste of Deceit builds to a shocking, international climax that exposes a dark web of diamond smuggling, false identities, and a hidden inheritance. Finally revealed is the multi-layered fate of the missing husband.

This is chapter 1 of the novel I’m writing. I’d love feedback. Chapter 1 – The Hollow Mark Callahan pulled into his driveway at exactly 5:32 p.m. Not around 5:32. Not close to it. Exactly 5:32. Every Monday through Friday, depending on the lights three blocks back, he pulled in somewhere between 5:30 and 5:32. Today, it was 5:32. Perfect. The house sat quiet in the hills of the San Fernando Valley, a picture of everything he had ever imagined for himself. Three bedrooms. Three baths. Clean lines. Soft lighting. The kind of place that looked like it had never known chaos. Vision to reality. There was a time that phrase meant something else. Back when he was twenty-two. Back when The Hollow still existed. They’d caught their break at the Whisky a Go Go, filling in for a band that fell apart hours before showtime. One night. One chance. A room filled with just enough of the right people. Mark had stepped onto that stage with a guitar slung low and a voice that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel and set on fire. By the end of the set, they weren’t unknown anymore. By the end of the week, Sony Music had them under contract. Four albums. Seven years. Hit after hit. Until the night everything stopped. Shaggy died in a car wreck that should have killed all of them. Teddy never touched a guitar again. Ryan disappeared into silence. And Mark? He survived. He always did. He stepped out of the car, grabbed his bag, and walked to the front door. Right on cue, like every day before it. 5:33 p.m. “Hi, honey,” he called as he stepped inside. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.” Sarah met him at the door, wrapping her arms around him like she had a thousand times before. She breathed him in. Cigarettes, worn leather, and the metallic scent of guitar strings still clung to him like a memory that refused to go away. “Surprise,” she said, smiling up at him. “Salmon. Your favorite.” He kissed her, easy and automatic. Perfect. Upstairs, a voice broke the moment. “Hi, Daddy! I can’t wait to hear your song!”