Eleanor Tatum

As an author you’re the director, producer, and the costume procurement officer. You move your characters like chessmen in order to achieve the goals you set for them. Or, in my case, the objectives they tell me. Yes, I hear voices.
Today I wrote a scene where my heroine has been shot in the arm and the doctor has arrived with his bag. “What’s in the bag?” She asks me. “Shouldn’t he check my blood pressure? I’m feeling faint.”
So, I write about the doctor pulling out a cuff monitor and his stethoscope out of the little black bag and wham! “Hay! Wait!” My rude “Shero” is screaming at me again, “It’s 1908! Can he do that? Don’t let me bleed to death. There are ten more chapters to go. Research!”
Research eats away at my valuable time. I want to write out the scene, but she’s on the floor glaring at me to stop writing and “Wickipedia-it!”
Enough! BTW: yes, the doctor’s good by three years.