The Haunt Vault began as a reaction to cold weather, a little hobby in the evenings as the temperatures dipped into -10C and lower. There was no plan, no end game in mind. That developed and morphed over the next three years while I wrote the next six books in the series. Yes, I managed to back myself into some pretty tight corners, but the beauty of writing fantasy is the ability to manipulate the environment to adapt to the unlikely.

The Junkyard Dog trilogy was one long movie in my head. From the start, I knew where it would end. There was no what-ifs, no question what the end game would be. The defined world scope made I easier, as there were fewer opportunities for an inadvertent butterfly effect.

But this new series? This one has become an albatross of overthinking strangulation threatening to become trashed before it sees the light of day.

I’m doubting each action and word, trying to place everything along a seven-book timeline where the final scene, 560,000 words from now, will play out.

As a pantser (a non-plotter), this is stressing me out.

I’ve promised myself I will write 2500 words today, and will set aside the overthinking for this chapter. Take a page from Scarlett O’Hara and think on it another day.

I know my characters.

I know my overarching plot line.

I know the end game.

And I have my song playlist.

Now I just need to set aside this paralyzing doubt and write the damn thing.

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