It won’t let me go, this new idea. Not for PTM, my historical, but for my next women’s fiction release.
I was at the dentist yesterday, my mouth numb, the drill whirring, and my mind kept playing with the opening words for the novel. I could see the gray, drizzly skies and the mourners at the funeral and the young widow in black. I could hear her voice in my ears. I know the subject of the book and I know it will be hard to write because I’m going to have to tear it from dark corners of my own soul.
This is the best and worst of being a writer: a novel that demands to be written. And I won’t even be able to begin it until the end of summer.
Originally posted on Diaryland