Prior to my current situation, if anyone had told me it was possible, I’d have called them a dirty liar—well, not to their face, but I’d have thought it anyway. But now I can say, without equivocating, that it happened to me.
A few nights after my husband and I moved into our compact, new, one-bedroom apartment in North East Los Angeles, I awoke with a start to a loud argument going on next door, or so I thought. I sat straight up in bed. To my amazement, the argument continued. Not from a next-door neighbor, rather, the battle was being waged inside my own head. There were people, one man and one woman, talking, no yelling, in two different languages, French and Kinyarwanda.
Not wanting to disturb my husband I got up, opened the door to our balcony, and stepped out into the night air. Now fully awake and with the San Gabriel Mountains silently standing witness in the distance, I guessed the truth. The people I could hear so clearly were characters, ones I had somehow conjured while sleeping. I went back inside, took out my laptop. and essentially began taking dictation. In that instant, Irredeemable, my scorching-hot contemporary romance debut novel, was born.
Now, Irredeemable is complete and seeking a proper home. The voices are still chattering away as I make revisions to the sequel, Insurmountable, while drafting the final segment of the trilogy, Irreplaceable.
Impossible? No. Improbable? Absolutely. But, it happened to me and anyone who says otherwise is a dirty liar.