A Novel Way to Die (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries, #6)

by Steffanie Holmes

“Bring the wine? What does it even mean? Which wine? Where am I bringing it? It sounds more like a text from Jo than a vital clue from my dear departed time-traveling father.”

They were kind, but they had their world and I had mine and we crossed paths at awkward moments on the way to the shower. I pretended that’s how I liked it, that I didn’t need friends who would burn the world for me, that I could fly over the earth without actually touching it, slip through every gap, and be apart from it all because I didn’t belong.

In the quiet of the deserted bookshop, surrounded by the works of all my favorite writers, everything I wrote sounded awful. Cliched. Riddled with errors and tautologies and poxy adverbs.