Buried Alive

The Characters We Drag Into the Trenches

Have you ever written a character that unintentionally became an obsession?

One of my all-time favorites started as nothing more than a placeholder. Draft one, I needed a body in a chair, so I gave him a couple quirks and moved on.

But the second I typed his name; he came to life.

Make him the villain.
Kill him off.
Love triangle with the heroine.
No… wait. Fated mate?

He went through it all in my head, haunting me in the dark when I couldn’t sleep. He was never supposed to be a main character, but his presence anchored me.

If only readers knew the chaos these characters put us through.

One day, if I get the chance to talk about this book, I hope someone asks about him. I want to see people’s reactions when I say he started as a nobody. (Think Steve from Stranger Things. He was supposed to die in Season One, but the audience loved him so much, the writers changed course.)

This character was a flicker that became a pyre. He has the charisma of Spike (Buffy fans will get it), the yearning heart of Conrad from The Summer I Turned Pretty, and more than a few devoted traits borrowed from my husband, who really is a hottie.

He’s NOT the main male character in book one (don’t even get me started on that guy. swoon).

But he whispers: finish book two.

He wants a story of his own.

Here’s the problem: book one is still in the trenches, scarred and bloody. Resilient and restless.

Mistake: I queried way too early. I researched but still cannonballed into the process with equal parts chaos and delusion.

Lesson: Slow down. Find community. Get beta reads, workshops, critiques. Grow. Edit. Learn.

Now she’s in the hands of a couple agents I admire, and for that alone, I’m grateful.

But dark romantasy is an oversaturated market, and the odds are stacked painfully high.

Despite my unyielding love this story, I can’t seem to muster the fucks necessary to work on the sequel. And you’ve met her before —→ say hello again to my imposter-syndrome demon bitch. Who constantly hisses: If book one doesn’t go anywhere, what’s the point of finishing book two?

Book 2 feels like writing a love letter to nobody, while its sister is lost in submission piles (probably not standing out nearly enough) and stumbling over an invisible hurdle I’ve yet to identify. Is it the synopsis? query letter? first paragraph?

Am I insane? Is this the Twilight Zone? If so, someone please, come help.

I feel like I am burying my favorite character alive, coffin bell ringing, begging for air.

But I love all of my characters in equal measures, in all different kinds of ways. They haunt me.

I am a castle built on sand, filled with ghosts, storms always threatening, and dreams buried like zombies that refuse to stay dead.

And he’s still there, scratching at the coffin.