In Someone Else's Skull

One big book finished. One coming out September 5th. One sequel to write.

So where's my head at?

Not where it needs to be. Not yet.

Being a prolific writer is great, and I guess some people would call me one. At this pace, I'll likely have four full length books, and at least two novellas, published this year. Not a bad start. And I can keep this up without my writing suffering. No problem!

Except…

Well, if you've read my books, you might notice they are very, very different. Rosemary Entwined is sweet and romantic. Deadly Captive is dark and disturbing. My novella, The Trip, falls somewhere in-between. Obviously the characters in each story are very, very different.

I say again. Where's my head at?

At the moment, somewhere between the three books.

Unfortunately, that makes it hard to write well. I can't be thinking about Kurt and Rosemary in the apple tree—never thought apples could be so sexy!—or Mark and Shawna struggling in the bushes (sneak peak butt plug scene coming soon) while I'm thinking of creative new ways for Cyrus to torture his latest victims. It's kinda like trying to watch a movie while you've got five stereos blasting five different stations.

So what do I do? Meditate? Brainstorm? Slam my head on my desk until all the noise goes away?

On occasion, but in a situation like this, nothing works but immersing myself in the mentality of whoever's head I'm supposed to be in. If someone's supposed to be falling in love for the first time, I have to do everything possible to recall what that's like. Only better. Brighter. If my characters are living through hell, I have to throw myself into the depths. Music and movies, poetry, pictures, anything that will make the emotions real.

I've mentioned method acting before, I'm sure. Well, to me, writing well takes some of the same skills. When I was in college, I had to do a monologue. My choice, from any script or play, and I chose a scene from The Abyss. I read the whole script until I was the woman, encouraging her lover to live. Everything that brought them to that moment was in the back of my mind. As I stood in the middle of the classroom and spoke to the man who was now my lover, dying, with only my words to hold on to, I lost myself completely. With the last words, tears fell, and the students and the teacher clapped. But I couldn't come back.

I sat alone for a bit and forced the woman—a character who was no more than words on paper—into the back of my head. I think she still lives there. My teacher came and gave me a hug. "Watch the movie again when you get home," she said. "So you'll remember he lives."

And she was right. I needed that closure because while I was doing the monologue, I'd forgotten—or more, I didn't know. I wasn't supposed to because the woman whose life I was living didn't.

Back to writing, I believe that is one of the most important things you can do to make your characters real. Forget the happy ending. There isn't one. Not yet.

Sorry to cut this short, but my characters will never get any kind of ending if I don't get back to them!