My histrionics were for naught, I started writing again yesterday. I actually got four pages done: one on a Halloween short story and three on a new WIP. The page for my short story isn’t very good, but that’s okay, at least I did something. The three pages on my WIP are pretty good, very emotional.
I’m borrowing heavily from the WIP’s I’ve discarded, proving once again there is value in all writing we do. I had one of those moments Kacey talked about the other day. One moment I had nothing, the next, three stories burst through my head. It didn’t feel like an epiphany or anything, more like the same old thing.
I feel better about writing this time around, less insecure, more confident that I can write quality, that I can produce the type of book I can be proud of Maybe I just needed a break. Who knows?
I do know I feel much clearer with my characters. The last couple of books I’ve started, I couldn’t answer the “Why?” question. Like an annoying two year old, I constantly ask my characters why they are doing something. If I don’t get a satisfactory answer, I know I have a problem. Also, I didn’t feel the passion. My characters would reach a point far too early where they became comfortable with one another. Not good.
The book I want to write is one where the characters are swept away by grand emotions, forced to make decisions with difficult consequences. I want the HEA to be hard won and that much more satisfying.
I feel like heroes and heroines are becoming too nice. I haven’t read too many books where the characters do much in the way of soul-searching, where they have to make some kind of life-changing decision about themselves in order to love and be loved.
“Bodice Rippers” from the 1980’s have been so maligned. But they were filled to the brim with passion. I can still remember the names of Woodiwiss’ early heroes and heroines despite the fact I haven’t read any of those books in 20 years. But heck if I can name the hero and heroine from a book I read two weeks ago. Yes, these old books were unrealistic, inaccurate, un-pc and in many instances, down right silly. But the writers still managed to pull us into their story, exhausting us with the wild passion of their characters.
That’s the kind of book I want to write. I’d even like to have Fabio on the cover if it were possible.