Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Someone just bought their way into my next novel.

A friend of mine has been hurt by another person–hurt bad–and I so want to fix it. I want to walk in there with my swinging youbetcha and dispense some serious justice. I want to storm in like Thunder himself and enunciate for any and all just what was done, what disrespect was brandished, and with what heartlessness and callousness my friend had been treated. I would detail each and every cruelty perpetrated, how cruelty was the norm, and how patronizing disregard–so distant from the kind-hearted treatment one expects from people we call “friend”–was the default. I would set Calumny to follow this…other…like the very Dogs of War.

But I can’t. It’s not my relationship. It’s not my battle. It’s not my place.

I must set aside my desires, see to my friend’s wounds, and be content with that.

Only….I am about to embark upon a new project, a new novel, and I need characters. I need bad guys.

I just found my model.