Thus, the journey began, with barely the beginnings of a concept with nary a plot, no characters, good and bad guys but a thought, nonetheless. It took me a year to write. And then another to publish. Let me tell you about it. And before you move on, this is not a treatise on how to write a book, but more about how I felt whilst writing it.
To begin with, it was exciting. As I built up my characters, soup to nuts, physical characteristics, attitude, personality, vocabulary, accent (I had to hear them speaking in my head), history (their past, of course), to the food they eat and how they like their coffee – if they like coffee or preferred tea – Earl Grey (imagine a toffee-nosed British accent, will you? Please?), I felt a discordant note creep in – and I’ll tell you why. I was trying to crawl under the skin of characters I couldn’t possibly identify with. Let me give you an example. There’s this guy – and to avoid spoilers I’m not going to tell you his name. He is a mean, sadistic creep who loves, actually enjoys, torturing his victims. Being the exact opposite of said character (please don’t ask my wife to comment!), I felt pain as I – um – tortured my victim. Not the victim’s pain but the sheer revulsion of having to do what was essential to move the story along – was disturbing – the stuff nightmares are made of. Keeping in mind that it wasn’t gory in anyway, I still struggled with it. Did I do a good job of it, atmospherically speaking, despite my discomfort? You decide.