Hope Appleton has a mind of her own. There’s nothing remarkable about that sentence, until I tell you that Hope is a character in the novel I’m writing.
You could say I only have myself to blame. In a way, you’d be right. But in my defence, you should always create well-rounded, authentic characters with clear motivations. I’ve certainly achieved that.
My agent isn’t very sympathetic to my plight. You see, the deadline for delivering this manuscript has been and gone. Twice. If this novel is not on her desk by Monday, my contract, and therefore my career, is over.
Here’s my synopsis. Hope falls in love with a dangerous serial killer called Luke Steiner, whom she must kill in order to save herself and scores of potential victims. Only she has the power to destroy him. But it breaks her heart in the process, and she lives out the rest of her days lonely and sad.
Yeah, I know, boo hoo. You probably feel sorry for her. Believe me, if you knew her, you wouldn’t.
Given Hope’s mission, I could hardly make her a shrinking violet. I endowed her with supernatural powers, fearlessness and fierce independence. Frankly, she’s a serious badass.
Therein lies my problem. I’ll give you an example of the kind of thing I’m dealing with. In one chapter, Hope was meant to go on a coffee date with Luke. So I set to work foreshadowing the coming drama with ominous clouds.
Hope looked out at the gathering storm. ‘I know what this means,’ she sighed, and promptly cancelled the date.
‘Hey! I’m the writer!’ I slammed my fist on the table. Everyone in the café stared at me.
Café? What the hell was I doing in a café? Thunder roared.
Just then, a handsome man swaggered towards me. Luke. I leapt up from the table and ran home as fast as I could, ignoring the magnetic pull towards him. Hope cackled like a witch.
It has sometimes felt as though I’d never finish this novel. I think that’s always been Hope’s plan.
My husband, Rob, is my rock.
‘Never give up hope,’ he says. ‘You can do this.’
I’m finally starting to believe him. It’s Sunday evening and the end is in sight.
‘Hope cut a lonely figure, wandering the moors alone forever. THE END.’
I lean back in my chair and stare at the screen, my heart soaring. Novel complete!
The wind howls around the house in a tortured female voice while Rob and I sip champagne.
The next morning, I awake early to check over my manuscript. But something’s wrong. There’s a new line at the end.
‘Then she met Rob and they lived happily ever after.’
Rob is nowhere to be seen. His clothes and his car have disappeared. I run down the street in my nightgown, calling his name. But it’s too late. He’s gone.
‘Never give up hope,’ whispers the wind, whipping my hair into my face. ‘Never give up hope.’
