I want this woman. Mind, body, and soul, for the rest of our lives on this planet and whatever lies beyond. Forever. And I know it as surely as I know the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. I also know if I say it out loud toanyone, even Mom who is already buying pastel yarn to make tiny little hats for her future grandkids, they’re going to think I’m crazy. Because it is crazy. It’s too soon. I don’t know her all that well.
But I love fast, and I love hard. And I know down to the core of my being that I’m already falling wildly in love with Savannah Jane Bowen.
I just need to keep it to myself for a while until I can make her fall wildly in love with me right back. That means having a plan. Asking her out for a real, official date. And getting all the other knuckleheaded shit stuff off my desk so I can spend time with her.
My latest book launched over the holidays, and it’s doing well. But I’m still drowning. Writing to deadline in the twelve weeks between releases is crippling me. I need to find a way to write more, and faster, so I can get a step ahead of the deadlines looming in front of me.
Writing this many words in this many days is something I do because I have to. I’d much rather have a book on the shelf all ready to go for the next publishing day. I almost laugh as I save and back up my document in three different places.
If wishing made it so.
I’m told there are people out there who do it. It’s gotta be witchcraft.
Over the past week, I’ve had three different people messaging me to see if I want to join their list-aiming anthologies. And while it’s been tempting—like, it’s literally my dream to reach a bestseller list—I need to do it by myself.
I need to prove—to myself, my father, and anyone else who believed I cheated on that stupid term paper—that I don’t need to copy anyone, or ride anyone’s coattails, to succeed. That my own work, as sometimes off the wall and quirky as it is, speaks for itself.
I want to earn it solo. And while part of me is scolding myself at saying a polite “no, thank you” to the emails I've gotten, I know it’s the right choice for me.
Hitting the list requires patience, sustainable strategy, and playing the long game. Putting out good quality books, building my brand and reader base over time, and hoping that a little growth with each book will lead to big growth overall.
My next deadline is just under nine weeks away. I wrote every day while on vacation, and almost every day in Ireland. It doesn’t help that I’m working on two manuscripts. The book Ishouldbe releasing next, and the book Iwantto release next.
I’m still writing words in the story I started when I landed in Minnesota with Savannah that first time. I want to binge-write it and publish it ASAP, but I can’t because I don’t know how our story goes yet. This requires yet more patience. Ugh.
But my heart isn’t in the book I’m supposed to be writing. It’s flat. I’m at the murky middle where I can’t see the shoreline in any direction, and I’m lost out at sea. My characters have abandoned the outline I was so sure this time they’d follow.
They’ve set fire to the metaphorical life raft I sent them in my back up plot idea. They snapped my olive branch of reconciliation between character and outline. And they’ve gone off on some random tangent with no directions, GPS or road signs, and I have no fucking clue what they’re up to, or how they’re going to get to where I need them to be.
I’m about to resort to violence.
You’d think because I’m the author of the story that I might have some semblance of control over the stubborn assholes in my books. But no, it’s an illusion, a mirage, a big fucking lie. I am their bitch and completely at their mercy.
My author friends say to suck it up and dig in. Push through the awkward middle bit to get to the downward slide intoThe End. Some books are easier than others, but this book? This book is like a bunion, rubbing against the inside of my shoe.
It’s on my mind constantly, which doesn’t bode well for the other areas of my life. My game on the ice is slipping because I'm distracted trying to figure out how the fuck to untangle the mess of drama my characters just jumped into like it was a bowl of vanilla freakin’ pudding.
Geronimooooooooooooo! They took off from the edge before checking with me and belly flopped right into the delicious dessert and now they don’t want to leave.
Of course this is all metaphorical, though the more I think on the pudding thing, the more I wonder if I should just throw in a big-ass bowl of pudding into my manuscript. Couldn’t be any worse than the dumpster fire I’ve written so far.
My beloved car broke down two days ago, and I’m waiting for the mechanic to give me an estimate for how much that’s going to cost. She’s quaint and well loved, which is realtor speak for old as shit and falling down around my ears, but she gets me from A to B, and I don’t have the cash to sink into a new ride for the foreseeable.
Slamming my laptop shut, I push to my feet. We’ve got a game tonight, which means I have to set aside the book stuff, my money stuff, and get into hockey mode. It’s hard. I’ve worried about money since I was old enough to understand the concept of bills, or money in, money out, and since I was old enough to understand the conversations I overheard between my parents.
I check my phone now that my allotted writing time is up, and there is a weird combination of messages on my screen.
Tate: I know you keep the team’s group chat muted, so I wanted to prepare you. We got a pig, Cap.
Savannah: Good luck tonight. I’ll be in the stands during the game, and at the bar after.
Mom: How’s things going with Ms. Bowen? We haven’t heard anything from you for a little while now.
My chest tingles at the thought of seeing Vannah after the game. It’s been too long. I plan to kiss her until she agrees to come on a real date with me. I even know where I’m going to take her and everything. But I’m too stuck on the pig to even contemplate a reply.
Justin: Like… to eat?
I open the group chat. There are 300 unread messages in the thread. I’m almost scared to open it but I need to know what’s waiting for me when I get to the rink.
