I got up this morning and for the first time in a long time started writing a new novel that dragged me out of bed.
Chapter one of that novel, “Can’t Kill A Dead Guy,” is now finished in first draft.
It was like coming home. Cady’s voice was there. Not the bitter, dark voice at the end of book one, but the voice I hear when I write her—the voice I heard when I wrote her the first time, right up to the moment everything went bad for her.
She has her feet under her, she’s alone but dealing with everything much better than I thought she would be when I outlined the story, and the biggest fear I had reopening her world—that all I’d get writing Cady was Cady-in-hell—is gone.
It was like sitting down and talking to the best friend I lost fifteen years ago, that I just got back, and finding out she’s still a person I want to spend time with.
Nine books is a lot of time. Today told me it’s going to be time well-spent.
I have to do the other stuff I have to do now—student support and starting on the HTTS walkthrough and everything else.
But today I came home.