A friend and I are writing a mystery together. We've been working on this bugger for about three years and its about halfway done and has been languishing in our computers for at least a year.
We had someone slightly (if you know anything about the publishing business, you know how laughable this statement is) interested until that particular line was shut down, locked up tight and the windows were boarded shut.
The book idea then went to my friend's agent who suggested the addition of a few plot lines. Lines that required knowledge greater than what she and I possessed. So. There it sat. My friend went onto write a historical all by herself and I wrote nada save for blog posts and devotional articles for my church newsletter.
But. The manuscript has to come out and play again. And I'm a little afraid. I've been assigned a new character point of view and I've got to write it so she can move forward. And I committed to exactly that. She writes every week, which means I will have to do the same. I've grown very content reviewing the work of others, knowing full well that I don't have the drive that so many of them do, to have my words read. I did. But I don't. And the more I read and review the more I feel like I have even less to say.
This should be interesting. She's offered to take over what I'm unwilling to do, but it's a commitment I made, and I love the characters and the writing with a buddy has been fun. So. Back in front of the computer I go. Writing the voice of a male detective. Definitely out of the frying pan into the fire. Title of the book. Out of the Frying Pan. Hmmmm.
