There is no book as interesting as the one I’m creating in my head. Wait! Let me explain before you click away, muttering about what a d-bag I am.
I do seriously love reading. I love all of the sex, murder, mayhem, romance, humor, mystery, drama – the more outrageous the better, I say. And if I had a genie in a bottle, there would be a long list of people I would have write short stories for me to read every night before bed. (Check out my blogroll, people! There are some seriously talented indie writers out there.)
However, I have discovered both the love and the hate of ‘the muse’ and will never be the same again. There is nothing like creating your own story, handpicking the characteristics that, both good and bad, turn your characters into real people.
Maybe it’s a power trip, being able to string readers along (and myself as well, if I’m honest). Maybe it’s an escape from a happy, though mundane, reality. Maybe it’s just a hobby turned obsession. Whatever it is, I’m fixated on the ‘who, what, when, where, why, and how’ of it all.
I care for my characters as if they’re flesh and blood. I laugh at their jokes, pout when they’re being assholes, and cry when they’re hurting. Really. I do. My husband has walked in on many occasions, asking what I’m laughing at all alone in my bedroom, or chuckling as I tapped away at my laptop with huge tears rolling down my face.
These moments happen frequently as I work on the second book in my series, Restricted Access, trying to reconcile the woman Alex is with the woman she must be. To this end, I thought it would be nice to present the first draft of chapter one of Restricted Access…
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