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)
Maybe it’s because I’m overly tired and my mind is trying to digest hours of explicit writing, but I’m feeling hopeful. If they can all do it, there’s no reason why I can’t. I mean, I actually know how to write, it’s just the matter of finding the time and motivation. And maybe digging up some of that romance and tenderness that these books all seem to call for. I can write the dirty fucking kink pretty well, I think, but the whole lovey-dovey aspect of it is way over my head. I’ve only been in love once, and it ruined me, so I’m not sure my jaded point of view will be helpful.
But there’s always Amanda.
Yes, she’s also jaded and a bit of an emotional robot, but she’s bound to be more sensitive than I am. I know she can at least write it. Her characterization of Susan and Bethany in The Heart Thief was honest and real and came from a soft place inside of her that I know doesn’t exist inside me. She may hide it behind her glasses and resting bitch face and tendency to whip insults at you like she’s shelling peas, but I know it’s there.
And, to be quite honest, I want to see her again.
She’s a bit much to take at times and I’m certain she still thinks I’m the world’s biggest wanker—literally and figuratively—but I was getting used to her company. Writing with her was fun. Fighting with her was even more so. Maybe even hot. And hot is exactly what we need to bring to the table in order to rake in the dough.
But will she go for it?
That’s a different matter entirely.
CHAPTER 9
Amanda
Phenelope walked into the clearing, the early morning fog dusting the tops of the yellow and pink leaved Galadrial trees, making it appear as though she was walking through a candy-colored dream. She wanted to get a head start collecting the peacock crickets from their flowery nesting places before the sun rose too high in the lavender sky, and the crew was on their way yet again.
Even though it was early and the land around her was still, she heard a rustling and the faint lapping of water from the thicket. She drew her bow, the wings on her back poised to spread at any moment. She crept forward, silent as a dolemouse.
There, through the branches, she saw a figure that made her entire body grow still. It was Luthwen, wading into the water, completely nude.
It was a jaw-dropping sight. His sinewy muscles and tanned skin gleamed above the surface like raw honey, the planes of his taut back rising from his firm buttocks. His hair seemed longer when wet, the color of copper, clinging to his shoulders as he surveyed the calm pond in front of him.
Phenelope swallowed hard, feeling a myriad feelings course through her. She had never thought of Luthwen that way and never once entertained the idea of him liking her. After all, she was part bird, and life was far too painful and serious to have physical relations, let alone to ever fall in love with someone else. But now, observing him in secret, she found her nerves sparkled with need, and the urge to strip herself naked to her feathers and join him in the water was nearly overwhelming.
But she couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She’d learned her lesson before.
I stare at the words on my computer screen, reading them over and over again, trying to get back into the flow of things, trying to figure out where to go next. But I can’t. It’s the most curious and frustrating case of writer’s block ever.
Actually, the last time I’d written anything was when I fixed up the last few paragraphs of The Heart Thief before we handed it in the other day. Ever since then, my mind has been stuck, like slogging through mud. It’s not even that the weather is gorgeous and the summer is laid out ahead of me like a warm, pristine blanket or that I’m distracted by life. It’s not that at all. It’s that the will to finish the story as I had planned it has whittled down to nothing.
When I was writing the novella with Blake, the words couldn’t come fast enough, even though the easiest parts seemed to come with Phenelope and Luthwen’s interaction. Just being in the habit of writing, of creating, spilled out into my other work. But now when I think about my next scenes and where I have to go after, it’s like I’m dragging my feet. I can only write with a gun to my head.
The worst part is, the only time I do feel like writing a bit more is when I entertain the thought of turning the novel into a romance, or at least upping the sexual and romantic nature of the book. But I’m fighting it because Phenelope should be fighting it. We both have to stay strong. Luthwen may be handsome and brawny and oozing with sex appeal, but that doesn’t mean Phenelope should sacrifice the mission by sleeping with him.