Every time I lie down to sleep, I feel the tautness of the skin across my back, and the trickle of nervous sweat that makes its way down my chest in anticipation.
It’s not me, of course. It’s Jorin. Two weeks ago, I was writing a chapter of The Prince’s Boy in the spare moments between one task and another, and was interrupted just as Jorin’s bondage was tightened and he was beginning to wonder how much pain he was in for.
Then came deadlines, and more deadlines, and a trip to Houston to run a fetish fleamarket, and being sick and coughing–the upshot of which is that I have not had even fifteen minutes to devote to fiction writing since that scene was interrupted. I often write on planes, but I was too sleepy and sick to concentrate. And since getting back it’s all been one giant game of catch-up.
And even now, I have about fifteen minutes, which is probably only long enough for me to move the scene into truly graphic territory, which would just mean that every time I close my eyes, instead of feeling Jorin’s hands reaching upward in their bonds, it might be something worse. Or even more distracting.
There will be no writing time this weekend because I’m speaking at the Transcending Boundaries conference. And Thanksgiving is coming… when the hell am I going to finish this scene?
Soon. I am a few chapters ahead in my writing, so there’s no danger of having to skip a week of posting, but at some point I will run through what I have pre-written, and then?
And then the whip will fall.
Mid Scene…
