Discipline

Last year I attended a meeting of a book club to discuss my novel The Ghost Daughter. In my quest to make a good impression on the elegant women of the club, I ironed my pants and wore a smart jacket. I even brushed my hair. As I perched on the couch waiting for the meeting to begin, one of the ladies came in. She wanted to know if I was the author. I proclaimed myself. Huh, she said. From the way you write, I thought you’d show up in leather and spikes. She wasn’t buying my ironed white pants…