First, and quite randomly, I found out today that Explicit Instruction is being illegally pirated through torrent sites. After an initial panic and a Google search I learned that I should take this as a compliment. Hmm. Since there is nothing I can do about it, I suppose I’ll have to look at it that way. It is weird to have zero control over something I created but hey, that’s life these days.
I’ve started writing rush as rushe in my every day life. I can’t tell you how many times I have to correct myself. A lot of typos are so easily caught because the word doesn’t look right. Trouble is, Rushe is right to me, so I have to pause, go back and check. Other people won’t get it, but I do find myself wondering if there will ever be a time I’ll be able to spell rush correctly again, if I’ll every look at “Rushe” as wrong. It’s even funnier because last night I was writing (longhand, notebook and pen) and I wrote “Ryder” instead of “Rushe”. So it turns out I can’t spell “Rushe” right either. I laughed of course, but I don’t think Lacie or Flick, respectively, would have found it so funny.
I made myself cry today. A lot of writers will tell you that a good story writes itself, I can’t tell you how true that is. It’s not unusual for me to get caught up in the adrenaline-fueled moments of action. My heart rate increases, I write faster, and I’m genuinely as hopeful as the reader that this will all turn out ok in the end. But from the anger and arousal and the laughter, the one I love best is the crying.
It tickles me the most because it strikes me as so ironic. In our lives, we’ll do anything to keep those we love safe. We try our best to minimise tears of sadness by avoiding situations that will cause them.
But as a writer I’m putting people I care about (my characters) into a situation that distresses them, and by extension, me, and getting myself upset about it. I’m (in my head obviously) shouting, “No, Rushe! Don’t do it!” But my fingers must work independently of that part of my brain because they’re typing away faster and faster, and yes, the bastard does it anyway. It’s weird, isn’t it? Or is it just me?
I’m upset, I’m crying, but I’m making them go through this horribly traumatising event – and loving it! I must be a masochist at heart. Like the writing/typing until I have blisters didn’t give that away to begin with.

Good luck on your adventures,



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