Show, Don’t Tell
“Read to me what you’ve channeled so far,” she says.
I clear my throat. Death and destruction await the one…
“Cliché.” My muse frowns. “What else?”
I fumble at my manuscript and turn a page. Blindly, the Mummy exits the tomb…
“Derivative,” she says.
“But these are your ideas!” I protest.
“My ideas. Your anemic attempts.”
“This is my first stab at horror,” I rationalize.
“Ah, then,” she nods. “First rule of fiction—write what you know.”
“Could you tell me how?” I ask.
My muse produces a stiletto. “Here, let me show you instead.”
