Why it’s good to be a masochist

I am stuffed. And not like a pillow stuffed. Emotionally bereft stuffed. I’m now about a third of the way through my WIP and after all the up and downs and ins and outs (not literally you dirty buggers) I feel like Adele – scarred and broken.

But it feels good. It feels like I’m finally getting somewhere and am starting to throw myself into this story. I know I have more work to do – more layers to add. I know I can dig deeper and hurt myself even more. But first I need to get it all down on paper. Then I’ll go back and torture myself again.

I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately to get myself in the right frame of mind. Adele, James Morrison, Ed Sheeran. They write what they feel and it’s brutal and raw and their phrasing is sometimes clumsy but you can tell they ache. The feel every word and every note and that’s how I’m beginning to feel about this manuscript.

It’s exciting and a little bit frightening to reach so deep inside your emotions and write it down, make it into something real on a page. And romance authors do it all the time, book after book. Even the ones they class as ‘light and fluffy’ have some emotional depth.

I cannot wait to attend the RWA Conference next year. I wonder if the authors will be walking around like zombies, arms thrust out totally devoid of emotion or feeling because they’ve pored it into their books? I wonder if the only response to my puppie-like questioning will be grunts? Or maybe that will just be me.

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