Hey! Jincy Willett has a new book out! I blew off everything yesterday and read the whole shebang. The book is called The Writing Group, and it’s a mystery, about a writing workshop in which one of the participants is a murderer.
Oh my stars, as they say in the old country. I think this might be my favorite book. It’s funny and smart and suspenseful and moving. I was pissed at myself when I finished it, such a greedy guts, reading it all at once. I couldn’t resist, though. Look:
“All the Halloweens in Amy’s memory had been thrilling events, where you ran masked and free through magically unfamiliar streets. Amy couldn’t remember this part she was watching now, the first and probably most important part, when you had no idea why they were wrapping you up in a sheet with jagged eyeholes and leading you into the dark void. Outside Amy’s car window normally overprotective adults giggled at their sobbing, spooked children. The crying ghost had probably glimpsed himself in a mirror, and his mother had said, “It’s just you, silly. You’re scared of your own self!” and couldn’t help laughing when this made him cry even harder. Here was the beginning of a story idea: Why is the kid crying? No. Why is his mother laughing?”
It’s been ages since I’ve been in any kind of workshop, unless you count my foisting manuscripts on Stephanie and begging for help, but the group dynamic felt spot-on, and the mystery element is really well done. I’m gushing, I know.
Just read the thing.