One day, if I’m a little bit talented and a big bit lucky, I hope the latest novel I am writing will become a saga.
Characters people want to read more about, whether they love them or hate them, making stories that readers can’t tear themselves away from at night.
I’ve been a writer since I was 4 years old. I’m 40 now and I’ve begun to wonder whether fiction is an area of my work I should give up on – having not had a novel published.
But for my own saga, the saga of this character called me, it’s simply a case of ‘write or die’.
Here’s the opening paragraph of the book in question:
(Read more here)
~ CHAPTER ONE ~
3pm: The woman clung to the black iron railings as heavy rainfall drenched her green jumper, rendering it cumbersome and coarse. Black mascara streaks veined her blushing cheeks. She trembled from violent terror but not the cold. Looking skyward at the grey density of the afternoon’s canvas she whispered the name: “Sophie.”