Not all books come about the same way. Last Stop was one of those unexpected ones where the protagonists mugged me and forced me to write the story. Their backstories also dictated the plot. Then I wrote a paranormal novel (not yet published), simply because I got fed up with brooding vampires. Then a novella (also unpublished) because one of the supporting characters from the novel proved to be too intriguing.
If writers always waited for divine intervention, they wouldn't get much done. Sometimes the muse needs prodding. I spent the last couple of weeks percolating my next story idea. It's one of those slow-brewing ones. I think I finally have the rough plot outline, but more importantly got a handle on the characters. So now I'm having the pre-writing jitters. Half the time I'm excited and feel good about the story, another half I'm convinced it'll suck—if I ever finish it.
Anyway, so far I wrote the first paragraph. Of course it might change later, but for now here it is:
I'm not the one for deep thinking, I'll be the first to admit. Growing up in my family you could get smacked for "talking rubbish," not that I ever had the inclination. Still, sometimes I wonder about stuff. Like how a man's life can turn on a dime. There's this straight path right in front of you, and then suddenly you're off to a whole different direction. You know what I mean? Sometimes it's your own choice, but not always. It can be the result of other people's actions, or even something trivial, like a color. I would've never met Evan if it wasn't for the green flyer.