Oh. Hi there, awesome readers!
So, this happened. Yesterday I spent most of the day working on a novel I’m writing entitled Family Secrets. The picture above is a mock-up cover that I created, and the sub-title is in the voice of one of the characters. In my mind, she’s narrating.
With me so far? Okay, good.
As you can guess from the title of this post, Family Secrets is about a serial killer. I’ve always had a deep fascination for the freaks that get pleasure from killing other people. Part of that fascination stems from the way that they terrify me. It’s as though I want to understand something that goes beyond the limits of my brain.
Are serial killers born with a defective gene?
Are they created from circumstances?
Is their sense of compassion tightly wrapped in an old carpet; stifled or perhaps even nonexistent?
Can they be “fixed”? If yes, can they ever be fully trusted?
These are just a few of the questions that churn in my brain and get spread across the pages as I write the story. The context both piques my interest and paralyzes me.
Still with me?
Then this happened. I went from working on Family Secrets straight to dance class yesterday and I just wasn’t myself. It’s like my mind got stuck in a dark tunnel and I couldn’t find my own personality. My mood was dark and void of the passion that I usually feel for dance. It wasn’t until near the end of the practice that the music finally reached me, and I was able to let it move me, heart and soul.
I know what you’re thinking.
“WHY WOULD YOU PUT YOURSELF THROUGH THAT, MONA?
WHY CAN’T YOU JUST STICK TO WRITING MEMOIR?”
The only way I can answer that is by saying that this story is screaming to be told. The plot … the characters … Everything about this story is living inside my brain and I have to fully submerge myself into it before I can let it go.
Meanwhile, I’m debating on whether or not I should share pieces of it here with y’all. The jury is still out.
In other news, here’s a piece I wrote for Yummy Mummy Club entitled, How to get your teenagers to stop swearing. It’s actually an excerpt of my latest book, SUPERWOMAN: A Funny and Reflective Look at Single Motherhood.
I need you to go read it so that you don’t think I’m a monster.
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