Today I've taken a backward step in order to move forward, doing a major re-write on chapter twenty. This is a benefit of fiction writing, the author can always rewrite the past to make it fit more comfortably with the present.

Unlike real life, where people have also been known to re-write their past, the fiction re-write allows the past to be erased or altered in a way that is consistent with the story. There are no loose ends to say it differently. No characters allowed to remain who might give a different version of events, or sub-plots doubling a loose cannons to threaten the integrity of the story.

So, as it has often been said, truth can be stranger than fiction.


Sneak peek from Chapter Twenty 

Passing Riley’s shop she thought she saw a light flicker and she was tempted to knock on Seth’s door, to unburden herself to someone who wouldn’t interrupt or show judgement at her resentment of her family – even of Bernie and poor little Mary, God rest their newly arrived souls – but when she looked again all was in darkness so she kept on walking. Probably just as well, she thought, for she was weary now and eager to lie down and let sleep carry her away from the heartache that surrounded her. Her thoughts returned to the ute she’d seen skulking out of town, for that was how it seemed to hert, hiding behind the dark so it couldn’t be seen. It must have come from the back lane on the other side of the road, which is why it seemed to be driving away after she first heard it start up. Then there was the hint of a light coming from Seth’s place, and she wondered if the two were connected and who would be visiting him anyway when one ever had before. Apart from Mick Pierce, she believed she was the only friend he’d ever had.  And she could hardly call herself a friend, more an advocate or support, good old do-gooder Carmel that she was. Wasn’t that why she was in her present quandary - too busy fixing things for others to concentrate on her own life?
          Maybe she’d been born to be a modern day martyr, sacrificing herself for the good of others. But she found no comfort in this thought as an inner voice hinted she was a victim more than a martyr and the chooser of her own victim-hood  Uncomfortable with this new line of thinking, she turned her thoughts back to the car, scanning her recent memory for clues as to the identity of the night rider or the make of vehicle. It was long in the body, she remembered that much and thought it was probably a ute, which didn’t offer any answers either as almost everyone around these parts drove a ute of sorts. It went with the territory. And these were the thoughts she carried home with her, a dalliance with supposition that kept darker thoughts at bay.