Authors are often asked where they come up with ideas for their stories, and I've noticed the majority of us have the same basic answer – we write whatever the voices in our heads tell us to. Those who aren't authors might think that sounds a tad coo-koo but it is the truth, at least for me.
While there are outside influences such as a place, a song, or even something someone might say to me can inspire an idea, it is still the voices in my head that tell me what to write and where the plot is going. People think I'm joking when I say I am often surprised at what happens in my stories and I have been heard to say, "Wow, I didn't know that would happen," while writing a story.
I've named the dominating voice Melba, not because she's milquetoast but because the name does not depict a young beautiful woman, but a crotchety old hag who is in everybody's business. That is how Melba sounds in my head when I'm writing. She nags at every stroke of the keys, gives me a bad time when I refuse to do things her way, and she purposefully keeps key elements of the plot a secret until the very last moment. I'm not very fond of her, to say the least but she does come up with some great tales for me to tell, so I keep her around.
Melba has recently been on sabbatical. You might think that a good thing, and while I haven't missed the wrinkled little witch one bit, I have been at a loss for new storylines without her. So when she returned today, completely unannounced, of course, I was not exactly thrilled to see her. However, in a never before seen act of contrition from her, she did have the a great idea to finish a book that has been all but forgotten for the past year.
So the next time you pick up a book, or open your e-reader, take into consideration what an author goes through while creating the masterpiece in your hands. And while I am sitting here with Melba chattering in my ear, at least she quit drinking.
Excerpt from CALEN:
She stood on the other side of the fire and watched him sleep. He was more beautiful in person than he was in her dreams. His face was soft in repose, and she walked slowly to him, careful not to make any sound that might wake him. Kneeling beside him, her fingers itched to touch the smooth skin of his face. How she wanted to trace her fingers over those full, kissable lips, to his high cheekbones, along his jaw, and over his brow. Her lips tingled at the thought of pressing them against his.
He slept without a shirt, and the sight of his bare chest caused her breath to catch in her throat. His skin was tanned from the summer sun, and she wanted to touch the golden hair on his chest. To trace a line down his body to where more hair covered his stomach and then disappeared in a trail below the band of his leather breeches. Wondering what else lay below that line, she wanted to know if the bottom half of him was as beautiful as the top.
She hugged her knees tightly to her chest to give her hands something to do, or else she knew she would touch him. And that was not allowed. She'd broken the rules just by being with him now, but she was not actually making contact with the mortal. Not a word had been spoken between then, she had not reached for him, nor had she wakened him. Oh, she wanted to wake him—to wake him and do much more—but time had run out, and she needed to get back or she would be missed. She sat for a moment longer and when he stirred, she caught her breath. He settled back into sleep, and, impulsively, she softly kissed his brow. Then she was gone.
To buy CALEN, by Rie McGaha, click on this link: http://silverpublishing.info/index/book_authors_id/64/typefilter/book_authors
For more information on Rie, go to http://www.riemcgaha.com/
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