There is no other way to express my feelings right now. While book one awaits my additional Beta reader’s comments, responses from a slur of queries, each personalized for the particular agent, and insights from my writing group, I have started on Book 2, a sequel to Johnny and Evie. I am so excited about it as my main character, Evie, develops into a strong, altruistic woman who helps hundreds of WW2 orphans. Based on research, the book will highlight some of the forgotten or seldom told stories of WW2. My goal is that with Evelyn as the sole narrator, the stories will be woven through her interactions and the people she meets and be interesting without sounding like a history book. I’ve already fallen in love with one of the little boys, Arnold, and am curious to follow the route that led him to Evelyn. And that’s also what I cannot get past!
The novel is outlined, my characters are clearly defined ( for me anyway), and the research is done. But when I put Evelyn and Arnold on a journey to find his past, I get stuck, as if the car they were in has broken down. There is no help, no quick fix and there I am , amidst the rubble of bombed buildings, looking for something clever. I know what I want to say, but when I put it on the page, it is just words, boring words and the aftermath of WW2, Arnold, and Evelyn and Johnny’s love is in no way boring.
So I scream; I go for a walk; I blog; I try to think of a better way.

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