I write books. I dream characters who really don't exist. I get inside their minds, or they in mine. I mold their mysteries like clay until the story's done. Then I look for a publisher, the books comes out, and I dream of readers who also don't exist.
Even unread, those characters remain quite real to me, as if I really know their worlds, their struggles and pains and rewards. Which kind of begs the question, do I know real people as well as I know them? And how well does anyone know anyone e...
Published on March 28, 2018 14:09