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Prologue

The timer buzzes, signaling the end of today’s writing sprint, but I ignore it just long enough to type the two words that make every writer’s heart flutter—The End.

These aren’t just words. They are a testament to perseverance. Proof that every late night, every moment of self-doubt, and every time I questioned my sanity was worth it.

I bite my lower lip, but my triumphant smile is impossible to contain.

I love this feeling. Every time I finish a new project, I feel like I’ve just climbed Mount Everest. The exhaustion, the countless hours spent staring at a blinking cursor, and every cursed moment of imposter syndrome fade away the second those two words appear on the screen.

What’s left is nothing but pure adrenaline.

Adrenaline… and an overwhelming sense of relief.

I’d love nothing more than to bask in this feeling a little longer, but my sprinting buddy has other plans.

Cathie: This last sprint was brutal. I swear these characters want to kill me.

Me: I very much doubt the figments of your imagination want to hurt you.

Cathie: Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it. These fuckers never do what I want them to do. They always go off script. I’m like… Hello! I’m the writer here! I’m the one in charge, remember? So why do I always feel like they’re flipping me off and laughing at my expense? FML!

Cathie: *slamming head on desk GIF*

A laugh slips free as I imagine Cathie reenacting the GIF she’d just sent me. This isn’t the first time she has claimed her characters have declared mutiny. Every new book she starts with the same speech. She tells me that she’s plotted everything down to the most minute detail, and that this time, the story is absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent going to follow the outline.

It never does. Then again, maybe that’s the price we pay for listening to the voices in our heads. Sometimes their ideas are just better than ours.

Me: Just trust the process. If they’re pulling you in another direction, maybe that’s your subconscious telling you where the story needs to go. Lean into it. I bet when you’re finished, you’ll look back and realize the plot’s better for it.

Cathie: Max, I love you dearly, but you’re talking out of your ass. Just be a good friend and let me vent for a minute, will ya?

I chuckle softly, already picturing her rolling her eyes at my message.

Me: Very well. What have they done now?! Ungrateful bastards!

Cathie: Better. Nice touch with the ‘ungrateful bastards.’

Me: I thought so. Just trying to be supportive. LOL. Now tell me… seriously. What’s wrong?

Cathie: Well, for starters, these fuckers are too horned up to pay attention to the actual plot.

Me: Horned up? As in…

Cathie: As in they can’t stop fucking long enough for me to move the story forward. It’s aggravating!

I laugh so hard it takes me a second to type out a response.

Me: Isn’t that a good problem to have? You do write romance. A little sex is kind of expected.

Cathie: Hey, I’m all for a good wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am session. Give me all the sexy times. But every now and then they need to put it back in their pants and let me move along with the damn story. Life isn’t all fun and games. They can’t be screwing on every page. Besides, love doesn’t work like that. Lust? Hell yeah. But I’m trying to get these idiots to fall in love here! Not send them to the pharmacy because they’ve shaved themselves raw from boning twenty-four-seven!

“Oh, my God.” I continue to chuckle.

This is Cathie in a nutshell. She can take the most absurd thought imaginable and have me picturing it in full HD within seconds. It’s one hell of a gift. One that’s worth its weight in gold as an author.

As a friend, though, sometimes less is more. As my author buddy? Let’s just say my imagination is doing exactly what she intended. I’ll probably spend the rest of my morning wondering how two people can possibly have so much sex that they end up needing medical attention.

Cathie: Anyway, I think I’m done with these assholes for the day. Time to spruce up this word vomit into something that’s actually readable.