Why can’t it always be this easy? Why can’t the words always flow so freely? I’m making good progress and having great fun with a new story that’s due November 1. I’m actually going back and forth between this one (still untitled) and Cling but I have more breathing room with the Cling deadline and the faster I get this one done, the better.
But at the risk of jinxing myself and stalling the writing from here on out, can I just say I love this story? I am enjoying writing about smooth skin and sexy shoes, about dancing in dark clubs to the blues, about first glances and first touches, about infatuation and first dates, about anticipation and expectation, about comfort and need, about commitment and growing old and remaining madly and deeply in love…
Dare I say it?
It’s a love story. It’s a love story and nobody cries and nobody dies and nobody cheats and nobody hurts and you know what else? It has a happy ending.
Wow. And I’m writing this?
Hmmm. So there is a first time for everything.