I like a good surprised twist in a book. I love it when a book puts in a major twist that is both believable but that I did not see coming. It’s a tricky balance to manage well. Usually I can spot a plot twister before the wind even gets brisk; mostly because they are set out as if they are slowly spewing volcano.
The smoke is obvious, the billowing soot a give way, so I am not surprised when the volcano “suddenly” spits out the “surprise”.
I am looking for the kind of twist that makes a reader exclaim out loud while reading. A moment that compels a reader to tell the stranger sitting next to them, “do you know what just happened!” It’s the whoa – everyone is a ghost – kind of surprise.
It’s the journey, not the destination—I keep reminding myself. And it’s a long journey, or at least I’m making it one. It was about a year ago that I decided to re-write the novel that I’d already written seven times. I was going back to scratch. I’d hoped it would take me three months, but now I’m hoping I’ll be done before the end of this year.
It was a balmy twenty seven degrees centigrade in late October in Venice, Italy; birthplace of Casanova and often referred to as the most beautiful and romantic city in the world. I was lounging in a café, sipping cappuccino and watching the world go by. Gondolas and river taxis glided past and the canal water gently lapped at the edge of the patio, a scant three feet away. Tourists stopped to pose for photos on the iconic Rialto Bridge.