I am in love with my story. I wish I could share pieces of it, or the whole thing, with you, my bloggy friends. But it's far from finished and I'd be terrified to lose it to the vastness of the world wide web.
My characters live and breathe. I love them. Yesterday I was so involved with writing that I forgot to make dinner and Keith came home to a dark house at six fifteen, something quite unheard of. But I just lost track of time.
I got up and sat down again five different times when I tried to get lunch. Every time I stood up, the next line of dialogue just popped perfectly into my head, so I'd rush back to the computer to get it down before I lost it. I'd get back up and into the kitchen and then wham! The next line appeared. It took me fifteen minutes just to the warm the chili.
I thought this would be just another short story, my own retelling of one of the tales in Andrew Lang's faerie books. But it's far longer than any of my other short stories and I haven't even got past the first plot twist. It feels like the difference between telling a story and living a story.
But anyway, I'd better stop talking about it or maybe I'll jinx it.
