I’m still blown away by the process of writing. Mostly I’m shocked by how much one story asks and is answered by other stories. How stories demand to be written to answer questions left from stories that came before. How writing has a life of its own.
I wrote Black Paw, expecting it to be a stand-alone story. And yet there was a grey kitten at the end of it who clearly had a story of his own waiting as it were in the wings. What’s in a Name is Echo’s story, a psychic cat who refuses some mundane name made up by people, clearly for the purpose of insulting and humiliating cats.
Did this happen? Kind of. My cat Lewis ran away last summer and did not reappear until right before Thanksgiving. Does he talk to me? Not so much except to insist I’m not generous enough with whatever I’m eating.
But he left us with the burning question. Where had he been for six months? I let Echo answer it for him.
One story pops out of your life, waves at you from inside of another story and there you are, writing the second story because the first one insisted. And you thought you might be in control.