As I write this it is July 29, 2024. This morning I read my journal entry from a year earlier: A full day of frustration trying to get RG (Rayford’s Garden) on Ingram Spark (the printer’s website)—near tears and blow-up several times.

In a novel I read recently in one of my book clubs, the author described a scene in which young people were dressed in wool hats and down jackets. That particular clothing was key in developing the plot, but considering typical weather for that time and place, they would likely have been in shorts and t-shirts. The author’s failure to correctly convey these basic facts knocked me out of the story and made me wonder what else was wrong.

That’s the question I’ve asked myself hundreds of times since I started writing fiction. Not at first. At first, writing fiction felt like opening a gift, especially the not-knowing-what-it-might-be part.