Picking up the pieces

I really don’t have too much to say, but my last blog was on March 29th and that’s just too pathetic for words. Coming off the high of Pretty Ugly (pun not intended, but totally hilarious nonetheless) I’m having trouble figuring out which road I want to take next. Book three in the Addicted Hearts series was always a possibility but, as of now, those characters aren’t speaking as loudly as they should be. To be quite honest, none of them are. No one has screamed in my ear as loud as Kat and Chase had in the past and I’m having trouble dealing with all this silence. I just don’t know what to do with myself.

I have so many things in the works. So, so many, and my editor is about two seconds from hopping a plane to NJ to force me to finish them at gunpoint if I don’t get my ass in gear. But what does an author do when the voices suddenly stop?

Lots of TV. So much that I’m embarrassed to even admit it out loud. Picture this for a moment: me on the couch, feet sprawled out in front of me crossed at the ankles. A Kindle loaded to whatever book I planned to read sits on my left, my phone queued up to Facebook on the right, my laptop on my thighs taunting me with its stark white screen. That damn blinking cursor is the devil, I swear.

This where my problem lies. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything for more than two seconds, and that includes trying to get down something substantial for people to read. I’m trying. Whether or not I’m succeeding is another story.

I’m just not feeling it. Period.

I’m my own worst enemy and my harshest critic. I always have been. On the surface, I pat myself on the head and croon, “Jane needs a break. It’s ok, the readers will wait.” But inwardly, I’m chastising myself like a sonofabitch for not having another release in the chamber, ready to go. I’m angry that my words have eluded me. I feel like I’m failing everyone -- myself, my characters and, worst of all, the readers that are waiting for something new. It all snowballs into this grotesque display of self-deprecation and pity. Who can write under this sort of self-imposed duress, right? Of course the voices stopped. They’re running from the monster inside my head that’s threatening to burn the village.


Ok, now that THAT’s out of the way. Let’s chat for realsies. I have close to twenty thousand words written in this filthy little ménage story I started last year, including a few random sex scenes I’d written that I need to work in. (Yeah, sometimes I write out of order. The juicy stuff is just so much more fun than the monotonous crap that moves us through.) Suffice it to say, this is a hot one. Something dirty and delicious to counteract the emotional wreckage Pretty Ugly caused. I’m hoping to finish it, at least by the fall. Man, that seems so far away, but I’m giving myself the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the story will burst from my fingers, maybe it won’t. Time will tell. 

Until then, let's make a pact. You don't give up on me, and I won't give up on me either. Deal?