Last week was hot. Not just normally hot but "throw all your clothes off, sit in a bath carved of pure ice and still feel yourself sweating" kind of hot.
I began to gaze longingly at the weather forecast, the little icons of storm clouds across the weekend. When the forecast was confirmed, I jumped for joy (and then had to sit down because I was sweating again.)
On Friday evening, I passed a pair of friendly ladies on a walk. "It will rain tonight," we all said, and smiled. I went to bed, looking forward to waking to the sound of thunder.
It didn't happen.
I woke at 4am, feeling as if my bed was on oven and I was slowly roasting. By 6am, the sky was grey and obstinately dry. Furious was an understatement.
It wasn't so much the ongoing heat, as the broken promise. The weather people had promised rain and they'd failed to deliver.
Promises are the currency of fiction.
As writers, we're constantly making promises. Promises about the kind of book it is, a promise that it will be worth reading, that secrets will be revealed, the murderer will be found, the dragon will be slain, and, in the words of Oscar Wilde, the good will end happily and the bad unhappily for that is what fiction means. As readers, we are trained to spot these promises and, boy, do we get annoyed when the author fails to delivery.
4 comments:
'Tomorrow ... I promise ... tomorrow,' as Scheherazade may have said.
A good blog! -- I will go to the book I'm sketching out and think about what I'm promising...
I hope you will have rain tonight. It is always the nights that are hard when its hot.
I'm not being facetious but air conditioning not possible just for the bedroom?
Excellent point about the promise. Mine might have gone slightly sideways. Thanks.
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