I love writing, and belonging to a writer’s group. Receiving constructive criticism has improved my skill and pushed me to discover things about myself. So, it was with some trepidation I submitted a short story for their critique this past month. I knew would give them pause.

It was a genre I hadn’t written before, contained language I hadn’t seen in any of the groups writings, and the subject matter was deadly, diabolically so. I had written a short story about a woman murdering her husband, and I’d had a ball doing it. My husband and I shared many laughs, although he did make an announcement at Thanksgiving…. “If anything should ever happen …”

I admit I was a little nervous as I arrived to our monthly meeting, and when my time came for the round table critique, silence ensued. I wished the room had been bugged with a camera, as the looks on their faces were priceless.

“Uh, uh… She is cold…I don’t want to know her…” My peer shuddered as she tossed her critique to me. The others followed suite.

“It was completely believable…”

“She was a sociopath…”

Three of the six, actually, physically, shuddered as they handed their critiques. Their looks prompted me to ask, “Are you all going to dis invite me to the group, now?” We all laughed, jokes followed, and it broke the tension, which my story had created. Isn’t a story supposed to do? Create tension, be believable?

I had written a story just the way I had intended. Murder is not pretty or comfortable or warm and fuzzy. It should make you shudder. My short story did that this time.

Maybe, I’ll be a writer after all.

“She was a sociopath…”

Three of the six, actually, physically, shuddered as they handed  their  critiques. Their looks prompted me to ask, “Are you all going to dis invite me to the group, now?” We all laughed, jokes followed, and it broke the tension which my story had created. Isn’t a story suppose to do? Create tension, be believable?

I had written a story just the way I had intended. Murder is not pretty or comfortable or warm and fuzzy. It should make you shudder. My short story did that this time.

Maybe, I’ll be a writer after all.