We wear them, we wash them. We live in them. Hell, we’re even buried in them.

Then why is it I keep losing track of them. Not in my house, but in my words. I find myself constantly needing to look back and reread, thinking to myself, “Is my character clothed at this point?”

Or worse, discovering that in the midst of a passionate love scene, neither of my currently enamored players have even removed their shoes.

The job of any author is to create a believable world where the reader wants to live. And unless I plan on marketing exclusively to nudists, I’d better start keeping a better track of my fabric trail.


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