One of my favorite parts of writing, the aspect that figures into me getting to the keyboard every morning, is thinking I know what’s going to happen, and then something else showing up on the pages. It’s not just the big stuff, but the small things. Actually, it’s the small things that I enjoy the most, the touches that were not in my plan, the looks across the room, the flutter at the pit of the stomach where something unexpected happens and both me and my character realize the awful truth: she is in danger of falling in love, of possibly sacrificing all that she has fought for to save another.
It’s then that the story really takes off for me, where the internal battle starts. I found that point yesterday when a threatening presence stood at the passenger pickup in a long coat and hat, inclined his head in an emotion unknown, and turned and walked away. I hadn’t even known he was there, and yet this is where it all begins.
Sigh. Maybe I’m a romantic after all, even if she had just kicked ass in the pages before.