paige winslow diary

I Scared Myself So Badly Writing My Own Novel’s Climax Tonight That I Had to Turn On Every Single Light in My House Before I Could Finish the Scene

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I Scared Myself So Badly Writing My Own Novel’s Climax Tonight That I Had to Turn On Every Single Light in My House Before I Could Finish the Scene – I have been writing horror professionally for eleven years. Tonight, apparently, my own manuscript finally managed to genuinely get me.

A Reader Told Me at a Signing Today That My Last Book Helped Her Through Genuine Grief, Which Is Not at All the Reaction I Expected Horror Fiction to Produce

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A Reader Told Me at a Signing Today That My Last Book Helped Her Through Genuine Grief, Which Is Not at All the Reaction I Expected Horror Fiction to Produce – I write to unsettle people, not to comfort them. Today a reader taught me those two things are considerably less opposed than I assumed.

I Went on a Guided Tour of a Genuinely Reportedly Haunted House Today for Research and Came Away With Considerably Less Usable Material Than I Expected, Which Is Its Own Kind of Interesting Discovery

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I Went on a Guided Tour of a Genuinely Reportedly Haunted House Today for Research and Came Away With Considerably Less Usable Material Than I Expected, Which Is Its Own Kind of Interesting Discovery – I went in hoping for genuine atmosphere to steal for my next book. I came out with a much more mundane, and honestly more useful, discovery instead.

I Finally Finished the Book I Have Been Writing for Three Years Tonight, and the Actual Feeling Is Nothing Like What I Expected It to Be After This Long

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I Finally Finished the Book I Have Been Writing for Three Years Tonight, and the Actual Feeling Is Nothing Like What I Expected It to Be After This Long – Three years. One final sentence. A feeling considerably quieter and considerably more complicated than the triumphant relief I had been imagining this entire time.