"Interesting and adventurous characters, an unfamiliar concept, and a compelling storyline made for the sort of reading experience that almost made me miss my stop. [...] Block off a good chunk of hours before you read this one, because you won't want to put it down." - Goodreads, Emily
My name is Kera Collins, and I would do anything for a golden nod.
At first glance, my life appears perfect: the best friends, the best school, the attention of Dex Albright, the deliciously irresistible grandson to the Headmaster. All I need is the prestige behind La Boheme, an elite secret society formed within the walls of my school, and my life would be complete. Once I’m in, I’ll be the one with all of the secrets.
It’s just…no one told me these secrets could kill.
I know it when I feel it.
First, a heaviness.
It may hit me blind or grow quiet. Either way, I wake up one morning knowing the words returned in the middle of the night. I'm left with the tension of telling everyone in my vicinity and keeping the knowledge close. I don't want to spook the kismet.
Characters begin shouting their sass. Inspiration oozes from every interaction. One minute I'm not even thinking about plot and word count and structure and the next? The next I'm outlining scenes and laughing and dancing in my chair. The flutter turns into chills on my arms and I wonder —
do I have it in me to do it again?
Somewhere within this movement, the emotion comes.
Yesterday, this happened.
First I found an article synchronous with an idea circulating in my veins, something that's brushing up against the darker version — the one I blinked into existence about a week ago and became frightened by its intensity. The article gives me pause. It makes me shake internally. I feel the tears threaten and swallow them away and work on something else, throwing up the question to the Universe and letting it rest.
The connection came later.
Staring at the descriptors, one caught my eye. This, mixed with that, and there IT is...my book.
I shoot a message to a friend, asking her what she thinks about it, and she responds immediately.
You write that thing. I mean it.
And then, the tears.
Last night, a friend told me he loves that there is a process before my process — the way words come and introduce themselves to me. I told him that's where the emotion comes for me. It's an old familiar feeling, running through my bones all over again.
Because it's one thing to come up with an idea. It's another to recognize the synchronicity of art and story and characters begging you to come out and play.
There are moments I get stuck. There are times within the process where I wonder if I'll ever feel the weight of the last sentence. But what really pushes me over the edge? It's not the fear of quitting in the middle of a piece. I'm too stubborn for that to happen.
It's the beginning again that catches in my throat. The heaviness is there for a reason. It's months of words building on top of one another and manifesting as a monster threatening to claw its way out of my soul.
The concept of writing isn't a question anymore. It's not even a should. The concept of writing has turned into a must.
So I'll gather my people around me. The ones who pushed me through the books that came before will be the same ones who whisper strength and encouragement over my words with this new project. And in a month or three, when I press the last key that wraps up the end of my latest store, the heaviness will fade and the flutter will return and the tears will flow down my cheeks.
And here's the secret: you can too.
You have a story inside. You know the one. You know it because this post made you emotional and your hands are kind of vibrating with a buzz you didn't know existed.
Write the book.
Start with one word, and then another, and then don't stop until you feel your characters breathe easy with completion. You may think no one will read it. You may think the story's not important.
But you will never know unless you try.
It started when she was four, when she taught herself how to read and write as a way to entertain herself while her grandmother kicked and danced in aerobics class. She cut her teeth on books from Dr. Seuss and writing anywhere she could find the space -- including her Fischer Price kitchenette, the pages of picture books, and Highlights Magazines.
She's matured a bit since then, now choosing to write in the margins of her books and on the mirrors of her apartment ideas and thoughts surrounding story and what makes us human. You can read more on her: