by Gayle Towell
“Check this out,” you say, your voice urgent and excited. I look up, and you gesture at your new window treatment: paisley drapes—swirling designs in shades of green and pink, reminiscent of a spring morning, the fabric soft like the petals of a flower. Apparently.
But I was totally in the middle of stabbing my arch enemy with a screwdriver. He’s bleeding all over your floor and gurgling out his last breath. Seriously, what is wrong with you?
Don’t give setting in the middle of an action scene unless what you’re describing directly pertains to said action—like, if I want to use the drapes to wrap the body, and blood leaks through the fabric, darkening the paisley. Then maybe I care.