With tangled shoelaces and blood-stained hair, Rebecca escapes into the fresh morning air, leaving the past 14 hours of captivity in her dust.
It’s supposed to be a thriller, and I originally planned to turn it into a novel but have since learned and accepted that thrillers aren’t for me to write. I need to enjoy what I write and not feel like it’s a chore that Mama’s making me do naked during an ice storm. I was on the verge of making that mistake. You know, the one where a desperate-to-be-agented author writes something for the market instead of writing what they love. I wasn’t putting my best keystroke forward, and the words were cold with no meaning. That advice—“Write what you love”—began to make sense to me. So, I stopped writing The Intruder. If I can find some way to spin it into a barfing love story that only I love to write, then that may just be MS #4. Hmm…we shall see.