The writing process is a mystery to me.  I start out thinking I know where I’m going and then, as the characters develop, the plot changes. Characters I thought had finished their purpose, reappear, often with their true identities revealed.  I’m always, it seems, the last person to know.

Funny, you all seemed so different a minute ago.

At least my characters haven’t started talking to me or demanding tea. This, I imagine, would only end badly.

Off with her head!

I’m on this train of thought for a reason, really. It all began when I needed a plot device, you know, something to bridge the gap between action scenes.  I had worn out just about every implausible gimmick you can imagine, resulting in the slaughter of thousands of innocent words, and then I saw it.  An old journal, dusty and frail.  The handwriting, elegant. The sentiments within, haunting.  Like one of those journals under glass in a ghost town museum, open to a page you glance at for a second before pressing on to the antique guns, the Native American diorama, the Victorian gowns.