One of my favorite things about writing
is being in “the flow zone.” It’s the time where your characters have so much
going on in their lives, and so much to say as your writing their story, you
get lost in it with them. By the time you come back to the real world, your
manuscript is done. That’s what happened when I was writing Claimed by the Bad Boy. I sat down to
write Ryker and Molly’s story, and stayed in the zone.
What’s the down side? Things like dishes
piling up in the sink. Wearing some crazy outfit that’s been in your closet
since the 80’s because you’ve been so busy writing you haven’t done your
laundry and it’s the only thing clean. Figuring out you haven’t been to the
grocery store in a while when you see exactly one egg, a jar of pickles, something
which was take-out, but now it’s suspiciously close to a moldy science
experiment, and a bottle of ketchup in the refrigerator.
Now it’s time to share the outcome of
being in my flow zone. So, while you read, I’ll go tackle all the dust bunnies
that procreated while I was busy writing.
Something always brings him back to her...
Excerpt:
What am I doing? Molly leaned a hip against the
counter in the restroom at the office, holding her phone in her hand, and
staring at the text she’d sent, which indicated it had been read. She’d excused
herself in the middle of great conversation while eating some freaking awesome
dumplings with Jack to sneak in here and hide out like a criminal. Why? Because
she felt compelled to answer a text from someone she shouldn’t be giving the
time of day. Or night, as the case may be.
Tapping her
foot on the tiles, she closed her eyes. She was going to give Ryker to the
count of ten to respond. If he didn’t. Well, even better. She’d forget about
her poor judgment. Forget he’d texted. Continue to stop thinking about him, and
go back to finish her dinner with a man who was interested in being with her.
By the count
of nine, she was one second from turning her phone off when the dweedle-deet
had her eyelids fluttering open.
Molly glanced
down and tapped the screen.
I’m home. Sitting outside, texting you.
Molly’s heart
sped up as though she’d just crossed the finish line at the Boston marathon. Ryker
was home. In Denver. Oh my God. She took a deep breath and typed.
When did you get back from Singapore?
She pressed
send and waited. And waited. And waited….
Dweedle-deet.
Biting her
lip, she read.
I’ve made a few short trips here since Singapore. Went to a software
convention in LasVegas, took a trip to Detroit. Dallas. Seattle. Then I decided
to come home. I got here a few days ago.
He’d decided
to come home? What did that mean? Molly typed.
How long you home for?
The time
seemed to tick by in agonizing slowness, allowing her mind to conjure up a
picture-show of the last time she’d seen him. He’d been glowering at her—the
fury rolling in akin to a storm about to break within the depths of those
ocean-colored eyes. She even recalled the deep resonating tone of finality in
his voice.
Leave, Molly. Or I will.
Dweedle-deet.
She blinked,
letting the memory slip away like little granules of sand from her hand, too
difficult to hold onto, and stared at the phone in her palm.
Not sure. I may stay.
An unwanted
tear trickled down the contour of her cheek, slid over her mouth, and dripped
off her chin before she swiped the moisture away and typed.
I have to get back to what I was doing. It was good hearing from you,
Ryker. Goodnight.
Where to find London:
Twitter:
@LSJRomance
