Two writers in love with the writing. Two characters those writers imagine, create and give life to. Two realities that start of parallel to each other, cross over, intervene, coil and suffocate one another.
Crossing the Lines is a much unexpected story. Seemingly straightforward to begin with, it takes reader on a roller-coaster ride of emotions, assumptions, anxieties and revelations.
Who can you trust? Are you mad? Is your imagined character more alive than people around you? What is real? Is real really better than imagined?
The book took me, shook me and spat me out feeling torn, spent and hurt. Then, once I had time to simmer on the story, I realised that Crossing the Lines could not have had a happy ending, ever. We cannot possibly prescribe everyone’s actions, decisions and aims. We cannot ride our own stories in a vacuum. People make our stories as much as we make theirs. If writers can control, to an extent, their stories, reality is uncontrollable.
So, both writers’ retreating into their own imaginary worlds is to be expected. It was a salvation for them, in a way.
People will never fail to disappoint. So, make up your own story. Make sense.