Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Except for Blake. Blake is the enigma, the person who doesn’t quite fit in. I feel comfortable baring my soul through the written word with anyone in that class except for him. It’s like he’s an intruder, someone to watch and spy and pass judgement without offering up anything of himself. That’s not to say he hasn’t written anything, but I truly doubt it comes from anywhere genuine. His work carries none of his soul.
The minute I step into the library, I exhale, closing my eyes for a moment to take in the familiar smell. There’s a twinge of regret in my gut, and I wish Blake hadn’t chosen one of my sacred writing places for our meeting, but I push on and ignore it. I go and find a table tucked away in the corner on the second level, and set myself up, opening my laptop, plus my one notebook for plotting and the other for world-building. The world-building one is a hell of a lot thicker than the plotting one. I get extremely carried away with the research aspect of the novel, and I have been filling up the tome for many years.
I haven’t written for the last week, and while I’m eager to get back into it, I also stopped at a difficult part. I’ve written forty percent of the book and have hit a bit of a block. My character, Luthwen, is in the middle of his quest, and his ragtag group of characters, including a beautiful half-bird woman named Phenolope, are becoming integral to his journey…but I’m bored. There’s a few scenes I have to go through before the first battle, and it’s lagging. I know it’s common for the middle of a book, but I haven’t figured out how to keep my interest or the readers’ that may one day read it, even though I’ve peppered the middle with exciting chapters.
Part of me thinks that maybe a romance between Phenelope and Luthwen could happen. It certainly feels natural, despite the characters butting heads. But I swore I wouldn’t inject romance into this novel. First of all, far too many fantasies have them and they feel poorly written and unnatural, like they’re thrown in there to keep the readers happy and not the author, or the authors think it will attract a whole new set of readers to their genre when it won’t. Romance readers want romance, they don’t want it with a plot about bird women and wizards and monsters that look like a giant ant crossed with a spider. They might not want it with a plot at all, so let’s not pretend.
So I do what I always do when I’m stuck—research. That’s probably why I’ve been writing this beast for two years. Every time I hit a road block I throw myself into something I can depend on. In this case, I get books about Greek mythology, the history of the Druids, and a Piers Anthony novel and bury my nose in them, getting as much inspiration and detail as possible while munching on garlicky kale chips and chocolate-covered espresso beans for sustenance (not at the same time).
I guess I’m so engrossed in reading rather than writing that time slips away from me. I don’t even notice Blake until it’s too late.
.
CHAPTER 4
Blake
Iwake up with a brain full of drying cement, completely hung over, every pore in my body smelling like beer. I blink into the dim light, relieved that I managed to pull my shades shut before I passed out. Beneath my sour mouth and pounding head, there’s this curious feeling, like a residue of guilt lingering deep inside me. This guilt is the manifestation of a hundred pins being stuck into a voodoo doll.
It comes back to me. Heath and I at the Bard and Banker, drinking our faces off and composing an email to Amanda. And I know I hit send. That’s where the guilt comes in.
Fuck. What the hell did I say? What did we say? I know Heath was an accomplice.
Even though I’m hurting, I roll over and grab my phone, clumsily getting my passcode wrong a few times before it clicks. I check my email, and before I even see the message in the sent folder, it all comes back to me.
You know what would make a billion dollars? Some kind of electronic retrieval system that will pull your impulsive and highly regretful texts and emails before anyone gets a chance to read them. If I were smart enough, I’d invent it, or at least be an early investor in said company because I think everyone everywhere has sent something they regretted. Usually while drinking.
I cringe as I read my email over, and I know, I know that this is bad news. If it were any other girl, she would maybe laugh it off—maybe—but since this is Amanda (and hence why I sent it to begin with), I’m giving her something she can take up with the school itself. The worst part, she hasn’t even responded, so I don’t know if she’s not seen it yet or is just stewing on it and plotting a million ways to ruin me.