Forgive me father. It’s been several months since the last time I wrote.
I think about it all the time. I have characters, plots, settings scraping away inside my brain, demanding their release, but I physically do not have the time.
Life is always busy and it is always difficult to carve out time to write, but the past few months for a variety of reasons have been crushingly busy. I know I will get back to it as soon as I can and I’m very excited about a new thriller that is about 2/3 written with the rest banging about my head.
I write this midnight confession not for sympathy or absolution but to share this realization that we all suffer from this strange sickness where it is a necessity that we write. Most people don’t feel this, nor do they understand the compulsion, the absolute need to write. I feel horrible that I have left these characters I created, my characters, in unspeakable danger, waiting for me to return. For some, my delay is beneficial because not all of them will survive my return. But for the others, the clock continues ticking and there’s nothing they can do, except jab me when I try to fall asleep.
This stop in the action is maddening. It’s against nature. Thrillers are designed to build and build and build, to never stop. Soon, soon, I will return. And I will race along with my characters. We will struggle and fail. We will do bad things for good reasons. And we will try to save the world. And everything will be right again.
Thank you for hearing my confession.