I just got an email that says, “As a writer, I’m sure you’ve had days where you’ve wondered what’s most on the minds of your readers.” I don’t know if this makes me a terrible writer or what, but I can safely say I have never once wondered what’s most on the minds of my readers.
Maybe it’s just because I have this idea of y’all as being uniformly smart and interesting, but I just figure y’all have yourselves taken care of and that it’s not my job as a writer to tell you about yourselves.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing it wrong, but that struck me as funny.
I thought nothing could be worse than not finishing Chapter 2, but I have to say, being finished with Chapter 2 is worse. I’m worried these first two chapters are going to seem really strange and out of place when I suddenly switch to focusing more on Midwestern church stuff, but part of what I’m trying to get at, too, is that she lives in a society completely set up to help her through this. As religious as the South is, it’s actually a good place for a Christian to go through a crisis of faith that doesn’t involve a disbelief in God, because you can talk to people about it. Religion’s not an inappropriate topic of conversation. And, in the narrator’s case, she happens to fall in with people who know immediately what’s happening to her and can send her to people who’ve experienced the same things.
And yet, it doesn’t really help her.
So, then we turn to the meat of the story. But is it fair to ask folks to sit through two chapters of side-dish before we get to the meat? Would I feel less anxious if I just made it one chapter? Maybe.
And then, what do I have to say for the rest of the book? I just don’t even know.
And people want to know if I sit around wondering what’s on my readers’ minds. Shit, I can’t even figure out what’s on my mind.