Thanks to, Amanda Buxton, for thinking I am interesting enough to be in her blog hop.
What am I working on right now?
I am making the editorial changes to my mystery/thriller Tattered Wings.
It is the story of a young boy who kills and why he feels it is necessary.
All through the story are bits of the lives affected by this boy's actions.
Do we make killers or are then born?
How does my writing process work?
Not like anyone else's from what I read. I always get a kick out of how people say they write. They make their character list, they develop them, they get their scenes in their heads and off they go putting it all together.
This is how it works for me.
I can't sleep. An idea floats around in my head, then it starts beating against my forehead saying "Get up you lazy bum and write this down because you won't remember it in the morning."
I drag myself out and transfer everything nagging in my brain on to a piece of paper. I feel relieved and go back to bed. When I get up in the morning to go into my office. I am flabbergasted at what is on the paper. Here is a sample of what was in my head the other night when the idea for the Murders of Madison Hill came to me at 3:35 am.
“He's dead.”
“How do you
know?”
“Allen, you
can't mistake dead!” Nate was poking the blue blob with a stick.
“Come on Nate, I don’t like this. I keep thinkin’
he’s gonna move. Besides, if he’s dead we need to tell somebody.”
“Allen, we
aren't supposed to cut through the woods. Mom said next time we did, she’d ground us.”
“Jeez,
Nate. How can you think of that
now? If you don't go with me, I am going
alone.”
Nate didn’t
move from his spot. He kept looking, prodding, and trying to turn the guy over,
but he needed something bigger.
It was an
adult, and he looked horrible. There was
blood all over the leaves around him and the blue jogging suit he was
wearing. There was a definite whole in
his head. The eye Nate could see was
open and foggy. Just as Nate began to turn toward Allen, he heard a rustling
sound in the distance. It was rapidly getting closer. Nate pushed his little
brother so hard he tripped. Reaching down he pulled the younger boy up, grabbed
his hand,and ran toward the nearest clump of trees. Pushing Allen down again, he threw himself on
top, and clamping his hand over his
little brother's mouth, he whispered,
“Shut up. Don't move. Don't breathe.”
Allen began
to cry.
