I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. Usually, that's indicative of too much caffeine throughout the day, or a giant smoothie just before bed.
Not this time. The voices are back.
Different writers have different tools: research, plotting, outlining. For me, it's the voices. Not so much during the day. I tend to be too occupied during the day, and I push the voices aside.
When I was a child, the voices came every night. They told me stories throughout the evening hours. Some were blissful. Others terrified me too much to sleep.
As I grew older, and made writing an occupation, the voices faded. There would be moments, but the familiar terror they brought each evening was spotty.
And so were my stories. I did write a series of poems: I hate you - 10 poems. And one night, Jesus Wept came to me in a series of screeches. I spent the next day writing.
I got some murmurs for Divine Wine. Why Kill Gayle? is straight from my imaginationn - no voices. That's why it's YA friendly.
But last night, the voices were back. I'm older now. They don't terrify. But they keep me awake. And last night, they told me most of a story.
I know now what happens to Indigo Ravenwood. I know that she was born fighting for her life, the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. I know that the oxygen starvation left her both deaf and mute.
I know that Indigo's mother was a banshee.
I know what happens to Indigo when she crosses paths with the wrong man.