Rewrite

It was a dark and stormy night… 

No that’s stupid. Every damn dumb novel starts that way. It’s gotta be better than that.

Suddenly, the lights went out. 

Great, now I’m starting in the middle of the action. There’s no backstory. It makes no sense. The reader can’t follow it.

The opening line is the most important thing. Everything flows from that. 

I know I’ll look it up. Opening lines… opening lines for stories. Here it is. 150 opening lines for stories. 

Let’s see. Nah. Too cliche. Trite. Duh? None of these work!

Rrr. Why can’t I do this anymore? I know it’s been a while, but my books have been very successful. I think lost my mojo. Or maybe I’ve been lying to myself the whole time.  Maybe before, I just got lucky. Think harder!

It was a terrible day…

And thus starts the beginning of a terrible story. 

Cursed computers! At least when I could wad up a piece of paper and throw it on the ground, it was cathartic. Now all I do is gently push the backspace button. 

But then again, at least that’s better than using a gallon of Liquid Paper. 

OK, resolved, computers are better. Now back to the story. No distractions. Here we go. Nothing. 

I know, I’ll skip ahead to the end and come back to the rest. 

How many murders will there be?  Six? No, too many. Three? I’ll figure that out later too. Maybe skip to the end. 

They just stood there, staring at each other. 

No! I need something before that. Think! I know. 

They were trapped. Stuck in the house with windows that don’t open and doors that lead back to the same room. Terrified, they stood there frozen, staring at each other, wondering who would be the next victim or worse, which one of them was the killer. 

Yeah….that’s good. OK, I’m on a roll. 

Blake picked up the murder weapon… a dagger… No… a revolver… No… a candlestick.  

Yikes, what am I doing, playing Clue?

Enraged, Blake picked up the dagger, still dripping with the maid’s blood, raised it above his head and charged at his wife’s liver…. Oops typo, lover, screaming… 

“You’ll never touch her again.”

Note to self, remember to write love scene where Hernando, the sexy Latin gardener and Blake’s wife Chloe, the rich and flirtatious seductress have sex.

Now, what to do Blake? Aha! 

In a moment of sheer devotion, Chloe threw herself in front of Hernando and the dagger pierced her heart…

No, she can’t die now. I need her later. Ummm…

The dagger pierced her arm. The rest of the guests glared at Blake as if he was insane. 

Holding Chloe in his strong muscular arms, Hernando gave Blake a steely gaze. 

“You never loved her! She is a beautiful women who craves tenderness! How could you hurt her again?”

Realizing what he’d done, Blake dropped the dagger and cried out. 

“You’re right. I’m a monster.” 

And he ran through the Tiffany plate glass window, falling three stories to his death. 

The remaining guests rushed to the window to find Blake’s mangled body strewn over his prized classic Doosenberg, while being pelted with raindrops. 

Chloe sighed and cracked a satisfied grin. 

“Well at least his car will go out with him. He loved it more than me anyway.”

But when they turned around, the image of Blake was right behind them. 

Sister Agatha screamed and Chloe fainted at the site of her seemingly resurrected husband. 

No! Duh? Sister Agatha is killed off first. 

Chloe fainted and Daphne screamed. 

Yes. That will work. 

“But Blake, you’re dead!”

Seen by the glimmer of light in the cracks of lightening, the image brandished the revolver that was left in the dining room after Sister Agatha was shot. 

Holding Chloe with one arm, Hernando pointed his other hand and stared petrified, as if he saw a ghost. 

“How did you get that gun! We threw it out the window.” 

Thunder rumbled louder and louder as he drew nearer to them, terrorized with fear. 

“I’ve been watching you the whole time through the labyrinth of secret passageways in this house. Blake and I wanted revenge against everyone who wronged us over the years. He chickened out, so I’ll finish it.”

Trembling, James the Butler yelled with rancor in his voice. 

“Who are you?”

With a menacing maniacal laugh, he opened fire, mowing them down one by one until they all lay dead on the ground. 

“I’m Burton, Blake’s twin brother. And now my job is done.”

He drops the gun on the floor and exits, a shadow into the dark and stormy night. 

Wait… the gun would have his fingerprints. Twins don’t have the same fingerprints. I need to add gloves. 

Dark and stormy night? Should I use it front and back like bookends? Well, why not, now it’s symmetry. 

It was a dark and stormy night. 

Oh well, good enough. The next sentence will be better. 

Ooo. I need a title… umm. That’s going to require candy. I will definitely need candy to finish this. 

(C) 2025 Suzanne Rudd Hamilton