On Writing and The Let...

I've consciously written stories since I was about ten. Frankly, I think it comes from having an over-active imagination, something that, these days can easily take me to hell and back. This may have something to do with being a parent... I can't speak for other writers, but most of the time it's a slog and those of you out there who think it's all about inspiration have sadly been misled. Anyway, back to the novel... Like most people, I find the dark side of human nature weirdly fascinating, at least and as long as it's kept at a distance. This is an extract from something called THE LET which I'm writing as a book and a script...

... She knew exactly what would come next: the whisky smell of his breath as he tried to kiss her, a hand groping its way to her breasts, a knee coming up between her legs - except she was already withdrawing the stiletto from her sleeve and, as she did so, she moved her head back and locked gazes with him. That was when she pushed the point in under the ribs, stabbing upward to the heart.
The boy’s eyes widened in horror and a cry came into his throat, but he did not die.
It was the drawback of this method of killing. Usually the shock of the stiletto was enough to stop the heart. Yet, if the heart was strong it didn’t always work, at least not immediately: the heart continued to pump, but the motion worked a hole around the blade before the blood finally began to leak. It was just as fatal, but longer...