The End...
The End…
Never have those two simple words said so much and lifted so much weight from one’s shoulders.
Being an author, we create life, characters, stories, worlds… We breathe life into what we create, and with merely the swipe of the eraser, we can destroy that life and world. For some it’s a God complex, others it is a means to have a voice when in their day-to-day life they have none. Some use the written word to tell of their broken heart, broken home, lost love, reunited soul mate, what they’ve overcome in order to give hope to others experiencing the same type of nightmares that tomorrow can be a better day.
But for me, I hate to say, it isn’t nearly as romanticized or selfless.
Writing, for me, is merely a means to get the voices, the stories, and the ideas swarming around in my head out.
Once they are on paper, they are gone.
Once I have poured many sleepless nights, handfuls of anti-inflammatory pills for my wrists, wracked my brain trying to connects dots that I lost track of, and remember what the fuck happened in book one or what a character’s name was, and I type THE END, it’s over; out of sight - out of mind, but forever in my heart.
It’s funny because I never really thought about it. I hadn’t finished a series. One offs I could write all day-every day; there really isn’t much thought involved with them. But a series is something that requires thought and attention to detail. A single line said in book one could be the entire premise and end game at the end of book ten. A great idea when you start can quickly snowball, and what was initially supposed to be half-human half-fae in the middle of Nowhere, Montana, turns into a six-book adventure with every mythical creature and badass under the sun, except for the fae.
At every twist, and every turn, what you thought was going to happen and where the story was going suddenly, and for no apparent reason, takes a drastic turn towards something else…
That’s how I write.
I don’t plan. I don’t outline. I don’t even think of the ending or where I want something to go.
If I do, in my mind, I’ve already written and read it, thus it doesn’t need done.
I hate that.
Now that I’ve officially finished a series, a trilogy in this case, there is an unimaginable weight that feels as if it has been lifted from my shoulders. My heart isn’t as heavy, the stress of trying to meet reader demand for this series is gone, and for the first time in months there’s a skip in my step and a burning passion in my words.
It kills me to admit it, but the stress from reader demand was so overwhelming that it was killing me creatively and spiritually.
When the words effortlessly flow, when I’m writing simply because the story is biting at my tongue, is a tickling at my fingers, and it feels as if each of my nerve endings have an electrical current sparking between them, that is when I create my best work!
Typing those two simple words—THE END—has flooded me with a sense of contentment and excitement that makes me want to write it again and again. That endorphin rush, that hunger to finish and the thrill of doing so, makes me want to speed forward and continue where I can, finish what I can, and wrap up as much as I can…
But only if I’m feeling it.
With that said, I am proud to say that War of the Immortals is completed.
I am truly honored and blessed to have the people in my life that help keep me moving forward with my writing, with my projects, and that keep me on track and help to make sure my eye is on the prize, as they say. Emily and Renae have been the greatest go-to literary bitches a creative fucktard could ask for, and I truly love them with every fiber of my being.
Because of them, The Forbidden Alliance Trilogy is wrapped, and War of the Immortals is available for purchase.
