This blog is it. My procrastination. I should be working on the next story now, and I’m not. Sometimes I really wonder why it is that I can only really write well when it’s past midnight and I’m almost falling asleep on the keyboard.
But even when I should be writing, I’m still writing. Or thinking about writing. Or reading about writing. It’s like having the world’s strangest OCD. I think about sex and romance and the writing thereof, and I make up a story out of nothing overnight if I push my brain that way. The next story took shape over the course of a few hours, then I suddenly had the ending ready to go just as I was about to go to bed.
That’s probably how a writer feels all the time – or at least I hope so, if they don’t get writer’s block. Always writing the scenes inside their heads, looking for the one that’ll knock everyone on their ass…
He took the wrap off her shoulders gently, and hung it up in the hall. Her dark skin had an inner glow in the soft light. He couldn’t help reaching out to touch her neck, and let his hand trail down her back to her waist.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered in her ear, just behind the curls of hair that framed her face.
She moved away, and looked over her shoulder seductively. “Of course I am, Mr. Clark,” she said, in a voice both rich and earthy, with the precisely controlled tone of an opera singer. “But I wonder, will you still love me tomorrow?”
Or maybe not. Hell, I don’t know. I have no idea what I’m doing, most days. I just get my butt in the chair and bang away on the keyboard until something comes out.