Last night at my writing group we did an exercise where we had to write down a scene with action that related to our individual projects. Something that illustrated the conflict in our stories.
I sat and sat and sat, twiddling my pen while looking around the room at the tops of everyone’s heads. How can I begin to describe what it’s like to have a sister with Down syndrome? We ate breakfast. We went to school. We fought. We grew up. We left home. We got jobs. We got married. Where’s the action in that? The conflict? The interest?
Why would anyone want to read this?
These are the questions I mull over.