For someone who is supposed to be a wordsmith, it can be difficult to explain the state of mind, that “place”,  required to make the story come. Because it doesn’t always come in any sort of natural order. I won’t lie. I don’t always know how my books are going to end when I start them. I just write and have faith that the structure will present itself as I go along. So far, that has worked.

It’s different with the scripts. I’m not sure why. Maybe because they are much shorter, and the discipline of the structure forces me to think under more limited terms. The scene outline is already complete for the pilot that I’m going to be sending in to TVwriter.com. It’s just a matter of fine tuning everything and making sure the formatting is as perfect as my very human brain will allow.

For some reason, Sundays have been working well for me, writing wise. I work two jobs the rest of the week. Sunday is a day off, for both me and the husband. Perhaps I’m not hampered by a sense of other obligations as much on that day.

I have this great little bump-out in my dining room with three south facing windows. I have a love seat in there and a couple of flowering houseplants. It’s been quite the refuge this VERY long and cold winter. Usually, if I sit still for a minute or so, I have at least one cat settling in on top of me, so I try to have my notebook and coffee ready.

Other times, I am robbed of sleep because that “place” decides to show up right after I crawl into bed, and what is emerging can’t be left unchecked until morning, or it will no longer resemble its original form. I’m seriously thinking of checking out Amazon for a little pen light that I can attach to a notebook. That way I can write without getting out of bed or waking the husband.

I’ve created quite the conundrum for my characters, relationship-wise in Book 5: Blonde in the Backwater (copyright 2014). There’s a lot of tension flowing: self doubts, mistrust, knee-jerk emotional reactions and misguided loyalties. And all this is going on while these same characters are entrenched in harrowing situations that leave them feeling trapped and forced to examine what really matters to them.

What if you have to lie to survive, but that lie will destroy all you hold dear if it’s ever revealed? How much damage are you willing to incur to maintain the lie?

…And that’s the place where I write…

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