The Books Under The Bed

Very bad things happen when you mention old stories on Twitter.

Old beta-readers ambush you, for example. They beg, bribe, and threaten you with pain if you don't reconsider dragging out that old story, brushing the dust off, and giving it another look.

You see, I have this story about a little boy.

He starts life in a plastic bag, in a dumpster, in city, in the winter. A passing police officer rescues him, takes him to the hospital, and from there he moves to an orphanage.

For the little boy, that's the only piece of kindness he will see between birth and adulthood.

He's the main character of several books, and the focus of multiple short stories. To me, he's always been more of an abused dog than a man. He snarls, and he hides, and he's scared of you even though he outweighs you and could crush you like a pop can.

This weekend a friend poked me and asked why I didn't expand the three paragraph back story of his childhood into something more. Give the full story of the boy who steals an identity, and fakes his way into adulthood.

Crazy lady that I am, I think I want to give it a try.

The last time I worked on this universe it was November of 2008. Three years, four books, and now I'm going back to a man with ice blue eyes.


Image courtesy of and copyright to Lordwuermchen on Deviant Art.