I am putting it off. I am waiting for the moment to be right. I am waiting for me to stop being scared. I am waiting for permission. I am waiting for my muse. I am waiting for a good night’s sleep and a day where my son isn’t whiny.
I am waiting to start my next novel.
I’ve got the basic pre-plan on file. And then i just write, but I haven’t started.
I think because I am not excited about this one yet. I want to write it, the hero needs a chance to redeem himself. And yet, I want to write about sexy encounters on the beach with men with freckles who kiss like a fantasy.
I want to write about heroines who think they might like to be literally tied down. And spanked for fun. Heroines who appreciate dominate men who have strict rules about behavior and decorum. And dress. And sex. Of limits tested and stretched further than you thought you could go.
I want to write about falling for the wrong person at the right time, or the right person at the wrong time. I want to write about taboo seductions and clandestine relationships that walk the fine line of hot and just plain wrong. (Nothing illegal this has been something I’ve wanted to write for years).
I want kisses and bodies brushing together, moaning and panting breath that meet between two bodies, mouths that suck and tease, fingers that caress and stroke and orgasms for everyone. And people who roll over and say “I love you” even though they’ve only been dating for five days.
I want love at first sight and happily every afters forever more.
Maybe I should write those things instead. I think the muse and I will be much happier. I will come back to the hockey later. I’m still mad at the hero for his past.