My husband wants to go see a musical.


"Look," he says to me.

I look at the familiar listings of musicals, my soul shriveling inside. Please understand, I'm a fan of the arts. Heck, I'm a writer, aren't I? But musicals . . .

Years ago we inherited season tickets to the local theater. Every three months, Kevin and I dresssed up and headed out to see the latest offering. While I enjoyed a night out with hubby, turns out he enjoyed it more. Turns out he actually likes musicals. I like plays, really I do. I have no argument with the theater, it's just all that singing . . .

I mean, really, who stops their life every few minutes to sing about what just happened? They have me on the edge of my seat with the conflict, then what? They break out into song, droning on forever about their plight. I have no choice but to go to my happy place.

If I did this in my stories, my readers would throw my book across the room and write me hateful letters. And as I sit in the theater waiting for the action to continue, I look around my belongings. Where's a book--I want one to throw. Instead, I break out the Reesees Cup and wait for the show to go on.

Or better yet, I mentally travel to the setting of my current work-in-progress and watch my characters work out the next scene. One thing is sure: they won't be breaking out into song.