I have a scene ending with this paragraph. The problem is. At one time I knew what the secret was. Now Karl won’t tell me what it is. Any ideas? I tried interrogating him. He remained silent. Like most immortals the Green Man can be stubborn.
Karl tiled his head. He looked at Ceri perched on the edge of her seat, trying to grasp the wonders Catherine and he were discussing. He considered what to tell them. What would be safe to reveal? He knew what he was about to say would not travel past Catherine. Ceri was another matter. She would not intentionally pass secrets. She had survival smarts for the streets of Torion. But not the fairy tale that Alfheim appeared to her to be. Asking her to leave so he could share secrets with Catherine would needlessly harm her.
Stories have been a part of my life forever. I have heard them, read them, and told them as long as I can remember. I’ve written hundreds of stories. Bits and pieces of stories. This is my first novel. It is the result of a story that refused to die. It kept unreeling in my mind. After a year of this haunting, I had no choice but to write it. What started as a simple damsel in distress story changed once I met the damsel. As I wrote this set of stories the world I imagined grew. After rewrites, revisions, and letting it bake. I’ve discovered more. More of the politics of the region. More relationships between people. Now as I begin a sequel to this first book, I’m finding more complexity than I ever imagined and more loose strings that need to be explored.
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