Silent Deceptions/Idea for a Novel

It's Friday, a good day made even better by my guest blogger, Dorothy Ann Skarles.

Today, she shares an idea that is fermenting in her mind about a suspense novel she is thinking about writing.

Welcome Dorothy.

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My publisher, Twilight Times Books, has a book out titled, How I Wrote My First Book, told by 20 authors, including me, about what went into writing their first book.   

A Scent Of Diamonds was my first suspense/mystery, followed by Enchanted Hunt and then the non-fiction book Learning To Write The Easy Way.

However, today I have another book in mind called SILENT DECEPTIONS


My idea for suspense in a novel is to create tension, that bad feeling that trouble is on the way. A bad situation generates suspense along with efforts made by the protagonist to solve the problem:  Will she or won't she?

This conflict can be personal or psychological. Man against man/woman. Man against himself/herself. Man against nature. A story begins when the conflict begins, and ends when the conflict is resolved. The more conflict you have, the more suspense you have.

Here is a sample draft of my idea…

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Silent Deceptions

A chill ran down Tiffany's spine as she scanned the room.  It was getting more crowded by the minute. People were full of Christmas cheer, all laughing, talking and having a jolly good time. How she hated it! Hated it all! If only she were more skilled at lip reading. For that matter, if only she didn't need to wear the damn hearing aids, those modern devices that carried frequencies and tones.  But in this crowd, even the best hearing aids wouldn't let her hear the way she wanted to. There were too many sounds, and too much music being funneled into peoples' ears, as if they, too, were deaf.

She searched the room and spotted her husband, Spencer, talking to another man in full Santa regalia. Instead of a black belt around his waist like the other Santa's in the room, this particular Santa wore a white one. He kept pulling down on his beard as if he were having trouble talking through the bunched-up hair strands. Tiffany smiled to herself. Spencer had refused to wear a white beard. He said the hairy thing got in his mouth.

She leaned her body against a tall pillar and tried to concentrate on reading peoples lips. It was the only way for her to know what was going on.

She saw Spencer's lips move. "Kill!"

Tiffany dropped the black belt she'd been holding in her hand.

Words formed on the inside of the mouth were hard to read. She might have mistaken the letter K for a T.

But no! The word her husband had used was kill; she was sure of it,

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My question to you is:  Do the first few lines catch your interest to read more? Please tell me what you think.

Dorothy.

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Here's your chance to help a writer decide if she should spend months developing an idea, and then possibly years revising it until it's ready for publication.

Would you read more?  

Any suggestions? 

Thanks for stopping by,

Margaret

Memory and Tears/Bereavement

It's Guest Friday here at Enter the Between, and you  know what that means.

Here's Dorothy Ann Skarles.

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Memory and Tears

Timothy k. Hamilton

The question asked today in the bereavement group is to encourage talking. The moderator does not want anyone to keep their feelings hidden within themselves. Saying, 'I'm fine' when you are not, is taking a risk of coming down with a serious illness. The need to be with others, talking about a loved one, is the fastest way to a healthy recovery.
"The tears that come, are for healing," says our leader.  She looks at the faces in the room and spots me.  "Dorothy, how was your week? What did you do?"

I mentally straighten by backbone and say, "I can't stop crying. The dog, that my husband and grandson rescued, jumps on the bed, and I start to cry. I put on these gold earrings, my husband gave me, and I start to cry. I never know when a thought or something will hit to make me feel so sad my eyes fill with tears."

Another woman says, "I've been a widow for almost five years, and I still cry. Anything can bring it on. Sometimes I look in the mirror at myself and feel sad. I have the impression I'm now living in a box all by myself without a man, alone without my husband and I cry."

"Well, I'm a man, and I cry," another bereavement group member says.  "Sometimes even at work when I think Debbie should be bring my lunch. The guys tell me to toughen up, a man doesn't cry."  He shakes his head.  "They don't understand."

As I listen, I know I am not alone, and I can relate to the stories of others.  At the ending of my second year without my husband, I am beginning to believe mourning is as swift and unexpected as some memories. They arise together from left field as I once again recall my husband's words to my grandson four years ago about the abused dog he found. "Put the dog in the backyard. Your grandmother needs a dog."

The combination of those words, and remembering how sweet and kind my husband was to the animals he knew I cared for, instantly brings more mourning tears rolling down my cheeks. I am hoping for the healing process to begin as I write.

daskarles©2011

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Thanks, Dorothy.