By Susannah Jordan
Lynette Bittle gazed upwards at the ceiling fan display, her grievances aglow in the lavish fluorescence of the lighting department. Oak, cherry, walnut – it didn’t matter anymore. Mr. Bittle flicked a dangling pull chain, oblivious to his indecision and its resultant boiling point. His wife had requested a ceiling fan years ago, claiming she was too hot to sleep. With each empty-handed return from the store, her complexion grew more florid. “I’m going to browse,” said Lynette, more to herself than anything. As Mr. Bittle assessed the whirling overhead, his wife of nineteen years left him in the store instead.
“Writing is like building a car. Editing is stripping it back down to the frame.” – the author