I couldn’t figure out what I was going to blog about for my Crimson feature on release week. It’s funny, or at least I thought it was, to have writer’s block about the guest blog post I was going to do for the my book’s publisher. Then I thought I had this huge breakthrough and that I’d write the whole post from Gealach’s perspective maybe the night he first meets Maggie.
My book, Fated Souls, is a paranormal romance about a tabloid reporter, Maggie, and the horse rancher/werewolf she falls in love with, Aidan. Gealach is his furry alter ego. And not once in the entire book do I give the reader a wolf-eye’s view of what’s going on. There are a couple moments when we have Aidan’s voice while wolf but not Gealach’s. Eureka! Right? Wrong. Aidan specifically describes Gealach’s thought process as being instinctual not logical, which was why I never gave the wolf a voice in the first place. That left me with a blog entry that looks a little something like this:
Hungry. Grrrrr. Horny. Grrrrr. Woman, sexy; mine. Grrrrr. By Becky Flade
And back to the drawing board I went. Revised a previously deleted scene that I simply adored, making it fall post conclusion of the book. I enjoyed that a great deal. Until I realized that for anyone that hasn’t read the book yet, which is just about the world, I’d be posting a huge spoiler. There's that damn drawing board again.
It’s harder than it looks, writing. Because, as I’ve recently come to discover, writing isn’t just writing. Yes, I’m writing. Since selling Fated Souls I’ve completed and submitted an erotic novella which is intended to be the first in a series; I’m more than 42,000 words into my next novel; I’ve got the basic framework for a sequel to Souls hashed out and I’m playing with the idea of a prequel [Why is Aidan’s ranch called the Cherry Farm?]. I’ve also been active on my blog. And speaking of active, let’s not forget social media. Social media is this writer’s best friend and biggest enemy [I threw that in there just in case you missed the post about Skynet]. But honestly you’re so busy running here and there on the internet it’s a struggle to find time to run here and there in your imagination.
I write because I have to, it’s a part of who I am, I’m wired that way. But the rest is something I want to do. Even if it makes the rest hard. To paraphrase Maggie [What would Freud think of this? Me paraphrasing my own character; essentially mis-quoting myself?]:
“What kind of woman would I be if I walked away just because something I love isn’t easy?”
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