It's Magic

City Park, New Orleans, LA

I think it's completely normal for people to close a book, mourn the loss of the character in their daily life and think about what they might be doing outside the confines of the story. I believe it is expected to dream past the end of the story a writer creates, to imagine more, to desire more. I think that is the mark of writing well done. It is what I strive for. I want you lost inside the world I created, wandering the streets and homes, meeting the people, sitting at the table, yourself a guest at the party. I want you to smell the richly cooked meals, hear the tinkle of ice in glasses, fight the urge to interject in a conversation... I want to take you with me, introduce you to the characters, whisper their secrets in your ear and invest you in their cause as I show you the places I have been.

It is a balm to my soul when, after finishing something I have written, I hear the call for "More!" I am humbled when I have readers who tell me they lost themselves in the writing, that they miss the wit, the locations, the sunlight through the trees. I smile when they ask what she's wearing today. It tells me I created something worthy of their desire, of their precious investment of time. Inevitably, there will be the question, "How do you come up with this stuff?"

I have thought long and hard on how to reply, as if there is some urbane, "right" way to explain such an intricate and personal process. Really, it has been different for each. Each tale starts from a tiny seed, very small thoughts around a certain subject, or a dress, or a picture and once watered by my imagination, grows into a story that buds with the first draft and then, through editing, blossoms into a full fledged novel. Mostly...

With Exposed, my first endeavor, I must admit I was not that planned or focused. I had finished reading a certain series of books and I have to confess: I was pissed off. The writing was poor, pedantic and condescending. There was little to no research done on the subject matter and the characters were lack-luster, shallow and fickle. It was one of the few times I forced myself to keep reading, hoping that somewhere I would click in, feel less duped, find something of substance. Nope. Just... Nope. I read like a woman pursued, wanting only to turn the page so I could get the damned thing over with. I have to say I was red-hot by the time I was done, so I snapped the cover of my Kindle closed and tossed it on my nightstand. This of course alerted the Man to my sour mood. He bravely asked what was wrong and I told him, adding, "I can write better (stories) than that!" So, as the Man will do, in his matter-of-fact Man-ish way, he shrugged and said, "Then do it."

At first I balked, but then I remembered the feeling of betrayal, the lament of time wasted and the regret of having been taken for a fruitless ride and I decided I would at least begin. The next morning found me pounding away on my computer keyboard, a sideways kiss to the Man as he left for work, and Chapter One was born. If you have read Exposed, you know that after I allowed the Man to read it I was engaged for the rest of the night. In the morning he encouraged me to continue my writing, to flesh out the story, to just keep going. So I did. I kept going.

I had very little direction with my first book. I didn't start with an outline and I had no idea how it would end, but I knew one thing: I wanted to use the reader's time wisely, give them something to take away and at the same time, make them never want to leave. I didn't want anyone rushing through my pages because they just wanted it to be over. As I wrote, I became friends with Presley DuBois, my main character, and I listened to her. I wrote her angst, her fears, her selfishness, her reflections and her joys. I let her lead me down paths I hadn't explored and I let her tell me when it was okay to finish. There are moments in the book that I literally sat back from my keyboard and look slack-jawed at the screen. There are things I never saw coming and things that broke my heart. I listened to her voice in my head that had been quiet right up until she wasn't. When I finished the last line of Exposed I too was saddened by the loss of some deeply interesting and enjoyable people. They became as real to me as my family members and I struggled to let them go. My only saving grace was that I had another tale brewing in my head that was begging to get out, so I moved on.

As I wrote this first novel, however, I learned two things about myself that I didn't know: I refuse write a formulaic romance novel,  and I cannot ever stop writing. It is a desperate, undeniable part of me now. I have learned to recognize the need for words as readily as I recognize my need for food and water. When I am not writing, I am thinking of writing. When I am writing, I am thinking of more writing. When I am traveling, I am thinking of how to describe what I see; from airports, to taxi-cabs, to park benches and street gutters, I want to describe every detail. I cannot stop my mind from the desire to get it all in, tell it all accurately, write it all down!

Everyone's process is different and I am finding that each book I start demands something different from my routine. I hope that if you are reading this today you will come away with an understanding of how valuable I know your time is. I hope I never waste it or leave you wanting anything but more!