All right, 80% of my department are playing a violent round of Hot Potato right now, so I can take a minute to tell you the state of my novel. I've effectively beaten my inner editor into a bloody pulp and she is huddled in a corner over there shouting things like, "stop ending sentences with prepositions!" So streams of crap are freely flowing through my computer unchecked, and there seems to be a shred of plot taking shape.
I have a list of characters and very nearly killed one of them off today, but she's the only one holding on to a certain piece of information, so I'm keeping her alive in a nearby hospital for now. My main character is a 17-year-old girl, the co-dependent caretaker of her self-medicated mother. There's a dead baby buried in the back yard. But that's only one layer in a network of family secrets that are about to be drawn out into the light.
It's a story about the nature of identity and what happens when you discover that you've only heard one side of the story.
Yes, much to my chagrin this plot line seems squarely lodged in the Chick Lit genre, and my only hope is that it manages to play out as more Bastard Out of Carolina and less Lifetime Movie of the Month.
But I do have a working title. And it is: Tripping Over Sleeping Dogs.