I love to write.  It is my catharsis, my drug, and my means of expending all the negative energy that gets pent up inside me.  It’s a purging.  It’s an exorcism.  If I can’t write, I literally get anxious, so I have to make time for it everyday.

There has always been a writer living inside me, but I kept her buried deep because I didn’t think she was any good.  I hadn’t really lived enough, and therefore had no experiences to pull ideas from.  I was supposed to write what I knew, and I knew absolutely nothing.  After my depression got to be so bad that I felt like it was going to pull me under, I started to write.  I didn’t need to write about how I was feeling, I just needed to write, and I noticed that how I felt bled into my writing.  It felt so fucking good.

There are two quotes that I related to, and I adopted them as my motivation – “Why do I write? Because I find life unsatisfactory.” by Tennessee Williams and “Had I not created my own world, I certainly would have died in other people’s” by Anais Nin.

I chose to write mob romances because I could make them dark and gritty reflections of real life, like the Godfather meets [insert your favorite heart wrenching love story], and write about the two things I find truly fascinating – the mafia and love.  I know the only way I’m going to become a better writer is to write.  Practice.  I’ll let my readers judge whether there is any talent on my part.  I’m just doing what I love.  I wield the most powerful weapon on the planet.  The pen.  I know the power I have – I can create and destroy.  I can make you feel something.  I can rip your fucking heart out and place it in your hands.  I want to learn to use that power.  I want to perfect it.  I will perfect it.


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