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.