It’s midnight, and I’m standing in a snow-covered field, waiting for C. S. Boyack. Something howls in the distance. The light of the full moon reflecting off the snow is almost as bright as daylight. Almost. A man approaches, and I spot fur sticking out from the top of his jacket. This guy has definitely turned. I raise my arm to give the ‘fire’ signal to my marksmen. Wait, Boyack has a bushy beard. I take a closer look, and wave off the marksmen. The wind picks up, reminding me I’m not dressed warmly enough – bulky clothing would slow me down if a werewolf charged. I look down at my pad of paper and scratch out half of my questions. I want to get out of here.

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Many people daydream about writing a novel, but never write anything. What was it that pushed you over the edge?