I Had a Dream. Now I’m Writing a Book. Again.
I know. I’m as confused as you. And if you’re rolling your eyes, thinking not again, we know how this ends, well, same.
Disclaimer: This post is self-aware. Mostly. I am, in fact, confused. I said so in the title. But, if you’re here for the cast list, scroll to the bottom. You’re welcome, and I’m sorry.
“I have a dream, a song to sing…”
Except I don’t. I can’t hold a tune to save my life.
I have a story. I have characters. And I have unimaginable chaos swirling in my tiny brain, pecking its way out.
I’ve made no secret of the fact I want to write a book. In fact, I’ve started on numerous occasions. My last attempt was thwarted when someone I know in the virtual space decided they, too, were writing a book, and I decided she had ruined my whole life. (She hadn’t. I had. There was nothing left to ruin.)
Then I had a dream.
I won’t bore you with the ABBA lyrics again, but yes, prior to writing this, I may have watched Mamma Mia. Again. But I digress.
This dream. It started off as an ordinary afternoon nap. I was flitting in and out listening to my true crime podcast (that’s how you relax in your 40s, isn’t it, true crime?) and suddenly there I was in this dream. There was a man in my bed, holding me, whispering things I couldn’t understand. Then he left me, ripping my heart out. And I knew then, before I even woke up, that those bloody books I’d been reading had ruined me.
And I didn’t even get the fun spicy dreams either. It was PG-rated. Innocent, really.
But did it need to be?
And that, people, is how I found myself writing another bloody book.
The Books That Led Me Here
2026. This year, I stopped doomscrolling and read a book.
It’s been years since I read a book.
My ideas for my own fiction are as shrivelled as my heart right now because I’m not reading. Or at least I wasn’t.
Then boom. January 3rd, I decided I wanted to read a book. But not my usual. No, I wanted something different, something fun and light to dip my toes back into. None of this fantasy stuff I previously engorged myself on.
I could do a thriller, but that takes brain power, and in case I haven’t mentioned it in the last ten seconds, perimenopause. So I decided to give the romance genre a whirl. Specifically, the billionaire boys. You know the ones I mean. The hotter than hell men with a shed load of money and the ability to do what they want, when they want, without a care for the rest of us paupers. Yep. Those ones.
They were fun for a while. Then it got a bit meh. When you’ve read about someone having sex on one kitchen island and causing enough damage to render a small country bankrupt, you’ve read them all.
So I swerved. Into Bratva romance.
But Tracey, I hear you say, isn’t that the same?
Yes. Yes, it is. But with more murder, more possessiveness and dare I say it, more men doing more unimaginable things — and many of them again involving kitchen islands and not for eating.
Now. Context. I am celibate. Terminally single by choice, no pity required, I love myself and my quiet no-men-allowed life. My current relationship is with my foster dogs, my bed and chocolate. The only man getting my regular attention is the one I pay £32 a month as my fitness coach or something (sorry, Ruairi), who has strong opinions about my chocolate consumption and my activity levels. Not entirely sure who’s winning this fight, to be honest.
So yes. A morally grey man holding a woman and whispering in Russian during my 3 pm nap on a Tuesday was apparently all it took to get things moving, and here we are.
Anyway, if it matters, I’ve read 70 books since then, and it’s not even the end of April. Make of that what you will.
And Now I’m Writing a Book.
One little dream, one snippet of a scene, is usually how all my fiction stories start
So I opened the laptop and ignored my pile of work — because who wants to write SEO articles when you can write about hot Russian men declaring their love to a woman they’ve never even held a full conversation with.
The plan was to get it out, do a few parts and publish on the fiction blog. Except I wrote and wrote and wrote.
Now I am consumed.
It’s been a month, and I am still going.
Normally, I’m like, nah, done, over it, bye at this point. But I am 30k words in. 30k words. I am eating, breathing, drinking this god damn book. And you want to know something?
I am thriving.
I love it.
These characters have me in a chokehold, and honestly, I am here for it. Some might say I need to get out more, but in my honest opinion, the real world ain’t all that, but this one I’m writing, hot damn!
The men are the most diabolical. Yet the main character. Damn. My girl. She’s no wallflower, she lives for eye rolls, hair flicks and has a wicked, sarcastic tongue. Oh, wait, am I writing me? Scratch that. No. I can’t hair flick to save my life, I can’t even remember the last time I brushed it.
But the thing is, I have absolutely no idea how to write a book.
I am apparently what they call a “pantser” — someone who just writes as and when the ideas take hold.
Right now, there’s no structure, no cohesion, it’s essentially art imitating life or whatever the phrase is, who knows. But the chaos in my brain is working its way into my book. I mean, who in their right mind would write a nightclub scene that leads to a kiss while Sandstorm is playing and a disco ball is shot off the ceiling as the beat drops? Not one person whose book I’ve ever read before. Then I decided I was going to write the most unhinged “I object” wedding scene ever.
So when I tell you it’s chaos, I mean it’s absolutely chaos in all the best ways.
But the more I write, the more these people show themselves to me. It’s over 30k now, I can’t help myself, and I know these people as if I live with them. I know how he smells, I can taste his aftershave on my tongue.
I have no sense of smell, people. BUT I CAN STILL TASTE HOW HE SMELLS. Yeah, I might have a problem.
I feel her loss, her love, her pain, and I am taking them through this shitstorm by the hand and letting them show me the way.
And I am loving every single minute of it.
I don’t care if no one reads it. I am my own target audience. I love it (have I mentioned that yet?). And I’ve planned books two and three. And I’ve cast my ensemble cast for when Hollywood comes calling. Or actually emailing — who even answers calls these days? Not me.
Am I planning a career as a successful author, book deals, movie rights, the whole thing? Yes. Obviously. We want full drama, no restraint. The only thing I won’t be doing is the transphobe arc. We want chaos, not controversy.
The Cast. Because Of Course There’s a Cast.
I have thought about this carefully, and I will not be taking notes. (Please note descriptions are of what I have seen of the actors and why I feel they fit my characters).
Male main character — Scott Eastwood. The stillness. The jaw. The economy of words that makes an entire room stop. Obviously.
Female main character — Isa Briones. Fierce, unguarded, every single emotion on her face at all times. She is Jessie.
Bratva Don 1 — Stellan Skarsgård. Cold, commanding, monstrous underneath the composure. Correct.
Bratva Don 2 — Andy Garcia. Old world authority. Charm with danger underneath. Yes.
Son of Bratva Don 2 — Bill Skarsgård. Fresh off Pennywise. Already has form making skin crawl. The Skarsgård father and son pipeline is not an accident; it is a vision.
Housekeeper of Bratva Don 1 — Angela Bassett. Warmth and power and the quiet certainty that she knows everything and always has. There was no other option.
Friend of female main character — Florence Pugh. Do I even need to explain this one?
Bratva soldier – Dave Bautista. The man mountain with nothing to say and everything to feel. If you’ve read the book, you know about the ribbon. Dave Bautista and the ribbon. I’m not elaborating.
Female main character mum — Andie MacDowell. Beautiful and soft, and someone you’d believe a man like Bratva Don 1 never recovered from.
Wife of Bratva Don 1 — Sofia Vergara. Walks into an ice cream shop and ends two lives in thirty seconds with a smile. The most unhinged casting I have ever done, and I stand by every syllable of it.
That is a Vanity Fair Hollywood Issue cover. The Skarsgård father and son alone sells tickets. You are welcome.
What’s the title, you ask? Well. You’ll just have to wait and see if I actually finish it.
One Last Thing…
Years ago, I was working the deli counter in Morrisons. My primary school teacher came in, recognised me, looked me dead in the eye and said oh, Tracey. Wasting your brain.
Over ten years later, I am proving I’m not wasting it now. I’m just finally finding out exactly how ridiculous it can be.
Turns out the answer is very.
Thirty thousand words of very ridiculous, with two more books planned, a cast list ready, a Sandstorm dancefloor scene I will go to my grave defending, and a plot that started in an afternoon nap and currently lives in about ten different chat windows with my friends who are reading with me chapter by chapter, well, at one of them is. The rest are probably too kind ot tell me it’s absurd.
My old teacher, however, she’s welcome to read it when it’s done.
It features violence, murder, a wedding objection scene for the ages and a disco ball being shot off a ceiling. So perhaps not.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, chapter whatever-we’re-on isn’t going to write itself.
P.S. Can anyone tell me how to write a really good sex scene because it’s way harder (ha, pun not actually intended) than it looks.
