It’s after 1 in the morning. I’m still up. I finished writing more than an hour ago, but I can’t possibly go to sleep.
You see, I just killed a character.
I knew this was going to happen; I knew this person would die in the third book long before I’d even finished the first. It’s important. It’s necessary. And — as you might guess in a book about vampires — it’s also not the end.
That doesn’t change the fact that I feel intensely guilty right now.
Forgive me, character I cannot name in public! I swear this is for the best.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to lie down with my head under a pillow.