It’s a beautiful (and cold!) Sunday morning. I hope you all have an amazing day! I’m usually not torn between which book to write next, but I just started another novel (and I’m editing two other novels to pitch to my agent), but anyway, my brain is wired with faith in the impact all of these pen-named novels will have when Chip sells them and they’re published.
I woke early (2 am) because I had a dream that startled me with its vividness. I’ve been thinking a lot about the next Julian Vaughn novel and I haven’t been certain how to start it. But that’s the beauty of dreams and letting our subconscious have its way with us. Here’s the opening I just saw in my dream, I’ll save the rest of what I saw for when I start writing the manuscript (let me know what you think!)
For the longest time I thought the worst night of my life was when the three O’Connell brothers nailed my dad to a tree.
Looking back, it seems that what I’m about to tell you began that bloody evening, when I was twelve, and that the miracles which followed were birthed by adversity and grief; not only my own and my families, but possibly that of all the world. My ears bled from the roar of it and when I woke in the hospital I learned I’d been struck deaf, and later, after the fear and the blackouts passed, I learned the fate of my father.
It was five years later, at the open house following my graduation, when the first miracle manifested itself in physical form and changed the world.
Perhaps I should start this story there…