So I've started writing the next book, a sequel to Kiss Me Dead, starring none other than lovable (or not!) William. I took a couple of weeks and plotted the dang thing out, had a sense of where it was going and who the new players would be, and a kind of sense of the bad things dear William would be up to.
Then I started writing. I got to chapter 3 and stopped. And stopped. And stopped. I'd pick it up, play with it a while, go back and re-read, re-edit the first 2 chapters. But I couldn't get my wheels going.
Then it hit me. I didn't like it. It didn't feel right. I couldn't write it because I didn't think I could make it work.
Over the weekend, lying in bed in the middle of the night (that's when I get my most brilliant (or not!) ideas) I realized what William's story *should* be, and it ain't what I had started.
So into the toilet it goes. Erase the white board, Delete the plotting. Start over.
No worries! It's all good, and for the better.
Then I started writing. I got to chapter 3 and stopped. And stopped. And stopped. I'd pick it up, play with it a while, go back and re-read, re-edit the first 2 chapters. But I couldn't get my wheels going.
Then it hit me. I didn't like it. It didn't feel right. I couldn't write it because I didn't think I could make it work.
Over the weekend, lying in bed in the middle of the night (that's when I get my most brilliant (or not!) ideas) I realized what William's story *should* be, and it ain't what I had started.
So into the toilet it goes. Erase the white board, Delete the plotting. Start over.
No worries! It's all good, and for the better.