So I get asked all the time (aka earlier today) what got me writing what I do in the first place. Well first off, for those of you who’ve read the first (or was it the second?) post ever, you already know that the Shades of Power was really initiated by my best friend’s dream. It was her vision that gave me the initial kick in the pants to put pen to paper. But that doesn’t really answer the whole question. Certainly not why I write All the things I do. Now reconsidering her question, I gave her the honest answer:

Yeah. I think I’m just bonkers and have an over active imagination.

You got me. The truth is out. I have no idea where all of these stories come from or how they can all be so different. There’s fantasy (Raladar), paranormal (Moons of Mystery), and even contemporary romance (Ulwich Prepatory Academy). Each one is unique and has nothing to do with the others. No two characters are the same, they are constantly growing, and they all have their own set of unique quirks that continue to surprise me (but that’s a story for another day).

They really just started as random scenarios in my head that I kept adding to until they eventually spilled past conventional daydreaming. With each new layer, a plot grew, the story developed, two-dimensional figments became fully realized characters demanding to be heard. So, yeah, I started writing them down. Still have absolutely no idea where they all come from or what sparks any of it beyond the usual “Write the story you want to read.”

Are they just tall tales? Some. Are they just re-tellings of common tropes? Quite possibly. Are they even any good? Heck if I know; I’ll leave that to you. But at the end of the day, no matter what doubts I have about the story or my skill to convey it, one thing remains consistent–I still really want to read that book. And since no one else seems to be writing it (or at least I can’t find it anywhere), I guess I’ll just have to write it myself.

Teaser from WIP:

All of my nerves and anxiety fell away. I knew exactly what I wanted to do. My single-minded determination of why I had come here evaporated, leaving the real reason I had gotten out of bed at three a.m., the same reason I was always here. I searched Calvin’s face with it’s unusual mix of uncertainty and confidence. How can he be so open? Never any judgment, just acceptance. And he’s still in his uniform.
As I walked towards him, I knew what I had known at the beginning of the night when I had refused to leave my room—I couldn’t stop seeing him. I would keep coming here in the small hours of the morning until he stopped being here. Hell, I might even go off and find him if he wasn’t.