Please say I’m not the only author this happens to. I’m happily trucking along on the current WIP, pounding out 2k words in an hour or so. Suddenly everything hits a wall. Not because I’ve lost touch with the characters or plot. They’re all right there, staring at . . . a newcomer. Who doesn’t belong in this book or universe.
Grab a trusty (falling apart, with half a blank page left, but if you lose the damn thing, you’ve lost the entire fucking book series) notebook and jot down whatever this newcomer spits out. Then happily go back to the WIP.
At least, that’s what is supposed to happen. And does, typically. I came up with my incubus series on the ass-end of writing the first vampire book. Now that the vampires are almost done, my brain is shopping for the next stand-alone idea. I’m not ready to jump back into writing two series a year after the vampires are done. It’s been grueling. My poor brain needs something fun I can vomit onto the page without putting a damn ring on that bitch. I need a one-night-stand. Okay, more like a six to eight month fling. Whatever, the metaphor kinda works.
Problem is, the voices waving at me from the dark are ones I’d given up as a total loss. I started their story eight or nine years ago. It was shit. Or at least I felt like it had no where to go. Now that I’ve figured out this writing thing, there’s a glimmer of hope. Maybe I can salvage them. Could this be my stand-alone to work on next summer? There’s a catch . . . .
“It’s not nice to talk about someone behind their back. Unless it’s flattery, little scribbler.”
Son of a whore. That’s the catch. Aksel. Long-time readers know this sick fucker well. Hell, some request his unholy presence far more often than I’m comfortable channeling him.
“Because you’re afraid you like what I do. Fear is weakness. We should cut it out.”
Would you let me talk, Aksel?
“Are you going to tell them how wonderful I am? My blade skills are unmatched in this world.”
You did it for me. Now give me a minute to get the ideas on the page before I forget what the point of this blog was. *pauses*
*Aksel motions for her to speak with a flip of his tanned, black-veined hand*
Where the hell was I? Right, the real catch is, I can’t use asshole over there as-is. He’s got a few . . . quirks that no publisher will touch with a ten foot pole and someone else’s hands operating the damn thing. Quit scowling at me, Aksel. Obviously, changing core traits on a character isn’t pleasant. It’ll be a fight. One I’m determined to win because Aksel and his cohorts for this story are good characters. I just didn’t have the skill all those years ago to do them justice. By the time I’m free to sit with them, I’ll have written two more books. That’s a lot of information to cram in on top of this long-neglected story and have any hope of digging it up.
The only thing working for me, Aksel is an egotistical motherfucker. He won’t let me forget him. His fellow characters? Not so much.
“Only she is important. The others I’ll take care of.”
Would you stop that? Wait until I start writing the book, THEN kill them. How else am I going to show off your skills? (See? I even know how to manipulate him. A voice in my head. Yup, I’ve lost my marbles.)
“You realize, scribbler, that I can see the little aside you typed up there, right? I was not born yesterday.”
Quit pointing out my stupidity, Aksel. I need to wrap this up, put you back in your box, and talk to the vampires for a few hours.
You’ll like the baddie for this one. Trust me. Now say goodbye to the nice readers.
“All three of them? Sure. I’ll kill them later, as well.”
I give up. Some days, the characters win.