When I pictured writing a fantasy novel, there was always this harmonic scene of a sunny evening at a café, a rather ancient looking notebook (one made of paper, mind you) and some or other fancy writing tool like a fountain pen with black or dark brown ink. Sadly, I found out that this is not me. I am a great fan of my computer when it comes to writing – more efficient, less messy. I certainly don’t fit my own romantic notions of a writer. And considering how many hours I have spent writing so far, drinking my coffee at a café would have bankrupted me in no time, anyway.
I keep first reading and then discussing every single chapter with my husband. He is brave enough to give me honest feedback, which is quite a feat as I sometimes react rather moodily to it. Criticising an artist is a courageous thing to do, after all – especially if you are married to her. Funnily enough, we have not only very different preferences for the characters, but even different reasons for approving of the same characters. Whenever Enric, the male lead, behaves like a total bastard and I regret that he is only a fictional man because I can’t give him a proper kicking, my husband finds his course of action perfectly understandable and wonders what exactly my problem is. Guys really like to stick together, however misplaced that solidarity is in my book (not my actual book, the metaphorical one…).