narrative - Barbara Delinsky

Do you? I mean, out loud?

I didn’t used to. Only deranged people talk aloud to themselves, right? But there are certain circumstances now when I find myself doing it.

Like when I carry two super-heavy bags of groceries in from the car and heave them onto the kitchen counter. Okay, I grunt in relief when the first hits. Okay, I grunt when the second lands beside it.

I also talk to myself in times of frustration, like when someone cuts me off in traffic. You imbecile, I mutter under my breath, often using a more rude word than imbecile, but since I’m talking to myself, myself isn’t shocked. Are you in such a *** rush that you can’t be civil?

Should grammar matter?

So I’m working on SWEET SALT AIR, rereading Chapter 6 for the umpteenth time, and I pause on the following paragraph:

“By Oliver Weeks?” Charlotte cut in. “Still? What a character. Major interview there.”

Charlotte and Nicole are talking about ramekins that are hand-thrown by a ceramicist on Quinnipeague, but there is not one complete sentence in what Charlotte has said. I try revising.

“Were those ramekins made by Oliver Weeks?” Charlotte cut in. “Is he still here on Quinnipeague? He is a total character. An interview with him will be crucial to our book.”