Loving the Rush

I love every book I've written. Even the ones that petered out a few chapters in. I love the possibilities of what they could be. That said, we all have favorites.

About a month ago, I was feeling restless. I'd long planned to rework the book I'd queried last year. Take away the elements that I knew hadn't worked. Basically, everything but a few elements were changing. This book had been the bear on my back. Always revising. I'd lost my love for it. After querying didn't go well, I debated trunking it and moving on.

Then the ideas came. I started writing. The first two chapters were magic. The next few? Eh, not so much. I found myself getting anxious for those lovely, swoony kissing scenes. I decided to do something I'd not done in a long time. I skipped ahead. Then, the magic happened. Prose like I'd never written flowed out of me. I'd always struggled getting the romantic scenes on paper to be as lovely as they are in my head.

Not this time. I'm a harsh critic of my own writing. I fell in love. Every spare moment was spent writing. Luckily, I have the time. I'm preparing another project to query. It's mostly fine-tuning and getting my ducks into a row.

My elbows ache as my tennis elbow flares up. Wrists are cracking. I'm not even sleeping that well, scenes stretch out ahead of me. This is a rare thing for me. Most books have bits of this. Those chapters that I can't wait for. This book is mostly stuff I can't wait for, a bit of the other stuff.

I'm sure the swoon will wear off at some point. Probably about the time I have to add in more details and discover plot holes I created while flying off at such a fast pace. I'm enjoying the ride, although I'm glad every book is different. I'm not sure if I could manage it if every book was like this!

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