I dreamt of an imaginary world 8 months ago. It was a small American town built atop limestone cliffs towering over the Atlantic Ocean with people I knew and others I didn’t. Awake, I decided to meet everyone, to walk the streets of my town, and delve into these lives that were hazy at best. I felt as though I were floating, spying on scenes that should’ve stayed private and eavesdropping on conversations that weren’t meant to be heard.
January 2014, I put pen to paper (or rather fingertips to keyboard) and started documenting my fictional world. Campton became alive to me. Louisa Kane became my friend. Her love interests fascinated me. Her memories felt like my own. I experienced her fears and her disappointments, her joys and her friendships. When her heart beat faster, mine accelerated. Penning her story was a wonderful high.
When I nicknamed my blog Writers Anonymous (which is the name I gave to my incredible critique group in Geneva), I meant it literally. We writers are junkies who get buzzed on plot and grammar. We cause harm to those around us, because our passion is all consuming and sometimes comes before our family. When we don’t get to write everyday, we suffer from withdrawal syndromes.
My name is Olivia Wildenstein and I’m a writing addict and I’m not going into rehab anytime soon.