Had shoulder surgery last Friday. I was trying to be tough on Monday and skipped the pain meds, figuring I’d only need those to sleep.
I was sadly incorrect. When the ortho doc heard my story, he encouraged me to use them. So I dutifully swallowed them down when I got home. Damn, what a difference.
So I’m writing this while under the influence. My son happened to be home from college this weekend, and so he and I spent some time watching movies and chatting, as the shoulder surgery rendered me useless for our usual pursuits (bike riding, getting pizza, that sort of thing). Tuesday, as we were driving down for my post-op appointment and to drop him off at the airport, he asked if I’d found a place in BTHOM4 for an interesting bit of history he’d uncovered. I told him yes.
He answered with a laugh, “But you won’t tell me where you put it in the story, will you?”
“Nope,” I told him.
My wife, who was driving, commented, “Your dad does that to me, too. He won’t tell me how the story ends. It pisses me off every time.”
Yes, fear the Wrath of a Righteous Wife. But I’m that way with everyone. I haven’t told my editor or publisher how “The Lonesome George Chronicles” ends. I haven’t told anybody how “By the Hands of Men, Book 4” concludes. I want anyone reading it to be surprised, and that includes beta-readers, dearly beloved wife, and editors.
It’s a weird thing with me. I want everyone, even those in the “business” side of my writing, to experience the story fresh the first time they read it.
Okay, time to lie down. Even the tiny exertion of typing this is making me sweat.