I’m about 20,000 words into my latest novel and it’s giving me the creeps. I now know why many horror writers choose the short story form. What extraordinarily resilient constitutions authors like Edgar Allen Poe and H P Lovecraft must have had!
For months and months I have to live inside the fictional reality I’ve created and I’m not sure what it’s doing to my psyche.
And things just keep getting worse. My inner scribe is have a devilish ball throwing up all kinds of disturbing twists and there are days when I feel like putting a very large distance between me and her.
I’ve known for some years that she’s a bit wild. I’ve found it best to give her free reign of any new literary landscape and come along afterwards with my editorial eye.
Only this time I’m finding she needs restraining while I assimilate her latest missive.
Thank heaven’s my cat Psyche is white. Otherwise, I’m sure I’d feel a jolt every time she crossed my path.