Missing the Plot

Nothing wrong with a third cup of coffee before ten in the morning Julia reflected silently as she went to the kitchen. Winston eyed her suspiciously as he raised his head from resting on his paws. It seemed a little like feline disapproval to Julia, but she did not let that deter her. She scratched his favorite place behind his right ear when she returned with coffee. She sat back in front of the empty document open on her computer. The blank white of the electronic page seemed to be judging her too. She was sure she could hear the computer whispering “Imposter”. Or was that the noise of the fan, she wondered.

One day until her deadline to have three chapters sent to her publisher for the sequel to her wildly successful murder mystery. Where had all the time gone? Right now, she had no workable plots, no chapters and no working title, but who was judging her apart from an elderly feline and an inanimate computer.

“I am judging you,” said the familiar drawl of Ethan Jones, private detective. “I warned you that you needed a cliffhanger ending if you wanted to write a sequel. Did you listen? Hell, no!! And now look at where you are. No chapters and an advance that you have already spent. And a lot of caffeine in your body.”

This day was going so well, Julia thought. Now even the main character from my first book was judging me. Perhaps I was only a one book wonder and that’s it. She sighed loudly. She tried some deep breathing for a few minutes.

“I have had some ideas, Ethan” Julia rallied to her own defense after a little wallowing. “There’s the one where the murderer you put away breaks out of a maximum-security prison and comes to find you. What about that one?”

“And that’s your best idea,” sneered Ethan. “Where is the mystery part in that? And if he kills me for the murder part, there go your earnings on a long running series to rival Hercules Poirot. Or I could come back as a ghost detective? Is that the plan?”

“You have a point. Perhaps I don’t have another murder mystery in me.” Julia sat feeling defeated but jittery and restless from all that coffee. She went in search of a snack. That would magically help fill the screen with words. She was sure of it. Winston didn’t even look up this time when she headed to the kitchen. She had quit her day job with the success of the first book and the generous advance she had been given. Would they soon be out on the street? Think, she told herself. Visualize the book and it will appear or some such inspirational mantra, she thought.

Once in the kitchen, she noticed the stains around her sink. Before she knew it, she had spent the next two hours deep cleaning the whole of her kitchen. But still no signs of a plot for her story on the horizon. She had several anxiety-induced titles that she had rejected. The Case of the Missing Murder Mystery Novel. The Case of the Homeless Mystery Writer. The Case of the Vanishing Plot. Mystery Writer Dead on Arrival.

Returning to her computer, she held her hands with her fingers poised over the keyboard like a pianist ready to play Chopin with deep emotion. She waited for the inspiration from her brain. Nothing came. She wiggled her fingers. The audience was totally silent. Still nothing. She heard the audience starting to shift in their seats and one or two letting out a pre-performance cough. She repositioned her hands and screwed up her face. She sighed with deep emotion. Still no words came. Actual music, she thought. Maybe listening to music would help. She went in search of her phone that she had hidden in her closet, so she wouldn’t be distracted by doomscrolling. Playing music would be healthy and inspiring.

When she found her phone, she saw two missed calls from her publisher and one voicemail. She was about to listen, when the phone shocked her by ringing in her hands. It was her mother. Didn’t she know not to call without texting first to check that calling was OK? That was basic etiquette. Did she think a phone’s primary purpose was for making phone calls? She debated if it would make her feel better to talk to her mother and landed squarely on not at all. She pressed the button to send the call to voicemail.

Her mother would ask how it was going and she wasn’t that good at lying. There would be that tone of judgement. Right now, it was enough with the disappointment of Winston and Ethan. She didn’t need more. If there wasn’t judgement on her writing career, there would be maternal judgement on her single status and inability to land a long-term boyfriend. Shouldn’t a writer with all that success from her first book that was going to be a movie be able to find a man, her mother would ask again. Julia didn’t have time to discuss that and why her two sisters seemed to always have some man in their life. Voicemail could handle her mother’s judgement. Back to the problem at hand.

She decided against calling her agent and trying to sound like she was right on schedule for tomorrow. Instead, she started to look for music. Perhaps classical she wondered. She tried some Bach but it just made her sadder. Next try was Vivaldi’s Four Seasons to have something a little peppier but the result was the same. Maybe she needed some classic 80s, so that went on next. Still the screen remained blank. She would start a sentence and then she deleted it. How had she ever written the first book she wondered?

“How about some country music?” asked Ethan. “So many sad songs. Seems like the right tone for this sad, sad sequel.” Ethan crooned, “Writing left me for another writer and broke my heart, and now I’m homeless because I spent my advance.” He winked at Julia in the same way he had when he figured out the killer from the final clue in the first book. His face broke into that broad smile showing his beautiful white teeth. Julia felt a flare of anger. “It’s going to be called How the Detective Lost His Good Looks. He gets jumped by four mafia guys.”

“Not my fault that you are all out of ideas here,” mocked Ethan. Julia turned off the music and sat in silence. Now she just glowered at the screen.

“Of course, you could always put my good looks to more use. I could do with a love interest. It’s pretty lonely here living in this first book world where no one even hits on me for my broad manly shoulders. I don’t even get a hug from the widow when I solve her husband’s murder. That’s just cold.” Ethan paused for a moment. “It could be fun?”

Julia glared back. “I’m not having fun right now, so why should you? I’m not trying to write a romance novel. I want some death and puzzle solving with a smattering of violence and gore. Writing sex scenes is torture. I tried that in my writing class. The result was a lot of laughter from my classmates and not because I was trying to be funny. And they were meant to be supportive.”

“What if I do online dating? That’s what everyone’s doing now as no one wants to be seen dead asking anyone out in public. Too risky and fraught with real in-person rejection. Better to be endlessly rejected online. And I’m lonely so online dating is definitely for me. Maybe I just do it to see. You could set up a fake profile for me and see who responds. LoveDetective836 could be my username. Do you think women would trust me more or less if I’m a detective?” Ethan pondered and Julia started to look a little more interested.

“Maybe a widow messages me and when they meet it turns out her husband died in mysterious circumstances. To anyone else it would be a red flag, but for me it’s a problem that I can’t resist investigating while dating the widow,” Ethan added as he warmed to his own idea. Perhaps Ethan might be more than just his good looks, Julia thought. Did the widow do it or not? That could be the mystery.

Julia started searching through online dating sites and figuring out how to set up a profile. Her mother would be so happy about this part. Maybe not so much when she learned that it was a profile for a character from a book. At least she would be thinking about dating. She started the profile. Lonely detective seeks soulmate for problem-solving and walks on the beach, she typed.

“Seriously?!” asked Ethan. “That’s a terrible opener announcing that you are lonely and please no walks on the beach. Now you are writing a sappy romance novel. How about Private Detective Seeking a Soulmate for Thrilling Adventures?”

“Alright, that’s better,” conceded Julia. What if Ethan was better at this than her? “Now we need a working title. Safe Dating. Dating to Death. Dating until Death Do Us Part. Or maybe just Red Flag!! Makes for an easy book cover.” Ethan nodded approval for Red Flag. Well, at least one of us would get to date, Julia thought. The title worked as if she was a grand Prix car waiting for the red flag for the race to start. She was off and the words started to fly from her fingers onto the blank screen.