“Shoes!” someone said. “Death,” said another. “Ha ha!” said a third. “Are you in?”
I’m giving it a good going over because I don’t write short stories 10,000 words long. I barely write fiction at all. I barely know what a plot point is, but it sounds sharp and pokey, like those boots with the tall, spiky heals that go click-clack when you walk in your long black coat. Click. Clack. I’m giving nothing away.
Except that I want you all to read it as much as I doubt my ability to finish. I want you to read it because I have spent hours and gallons of coffee putting this story together and if there is nothing else to show for it, I will have learned a helluva lot.
There’s a huge difference between winning last year’s NaNoWriMo and writing this here story–I expect people to read this. I know at least 10 people will and I’m as nervous as all get out. I don’t have a genre, that’s one nerve. I write memoir, that’s another. I fear my imagination, that’s a third. Ah, just another writer shooting herself in the toe to make the boot fit. Once it fits, I intend on wearing it.
I want those boots, I’d wear them well.
Your turn, give me a sneaky plot device to end this sucker. If I use it I’ll give you a copy of The Dead Shoe Society. Funny thing is, I’m not giving any hints away. Up for the challenge? Hit me.