Cyn

Collette glanced behind her.  Nothing.  She was sure she heard footsteps, but if someone had been following, she couldn't see them now.  Walking back to her apartment, after the restuarant closed was the worst thing about being a business owner. More than once she wished that Harlan Hamilton would offer to escort her the four blocks to her apartment, but not once in the eighteen months he'd been security for La Roca had he done so.

Around her the cold night air acted as a cloak.  How many times had she seen a scene like this in a movie?  A lone woman walking down a nearly deserted street without near enough streetlights.  Fog rolls in, blanketing everything with an air of mystery.  The quiet of the night gets quieter.  Then, the eerie tap, tap, tap of footsteps.  Footsteps that increase thier speed when she picks up hers; footsteps that decrease in speed when she slows.

Just like tonight.

She pulled her spring jacket a little closer and picked up her pace. Two blocks to go, and then she could bolt herself behind her apartment door, turn on all the lights and chase the fear away once more.  The reassuring thought did nothing to calm the eratic pounding of her heart or the raised hairs on her arms. 

She picked up her pace.

The tapping footsteps behind her sped as well.

Swiveling, Collette was sure she'd see who stalked her, who filled her with fear.  But, as before, nothing.

She turned her attention back to getting home.  Not far at all.

A figure loomed in the dark. 

Collette screamed, dodged to the right and ran.

Footsteps followed.

Not one pair, but now she could hear two.  Two distinctive pairs of pounding soles coming closer in the dark night.

Frosting was good. In fact, it was extremely good when painted on Graham Weston’s body. But nothing tasted like the chocolate Sandra had spread on his fully erect member and which she was currently licking and sucking off the same. If his moans were any sort of indication, Graham liked frosting too.

With a final smack of her lips, she released his cock. “Yummm.”

“Tell me you haven’t done that with another man.”

A smile crossed her face. The statement was the first he’d given her that indicated he was interested on a bit deeper level. “Graham, is that jealousy I hear?”

“You bet your ass,” he hissed. “I couldn’t be your first, but I sure as hell want to be the last. I’d have to hurt another man who received such personal attention.”

Could it get much better for so early in their relationship? Confirmation that he wanted more than a night or two of sex? “You’re the only one I’ve tried that particular recipe on, Graham.”

The chocolate cake she’d scraped frosting from sat on the nightstand. The sensuous cop reached down and grabbed her arms, dragging her over his muscular body, his erection poking her in the stomach. Close, Sandra could see a wicked gleam in his eyes.

I was thinking today that although I love writing, writing is also work.  Just like a job, you have to prioritize different components of the work. 

The biggest priority I see is time.  If you were working a traditional job, you would work set hours.  We need to do this with our writing as well.  It is too easy for other things to steal into our writing time so we must make it an unshakeable priority.  No excuses.

With a lot of jobs, you need to prepare as well.  Sometimes this is taking refresher classes, or getting certifications, maybe meeting a new educational requirement.  In writing, we need to prepare also.  We need to prepare our characters, knowing them inside out, as well, if not better than we know ourselves.  We also need to seek out further education regarding our craft.  There is always something to learn, someone to read or study to find out more about how we can be better writers.  Right now I am reading Story by Robert McKee and am learning, or perhaps relearning some basic tenets that belong in the concept of story.

We also need to know when to quit for the day.  Just like punching out, quiting at 5 to go home, writers need to learn to set some limits on their time so they can get away from the computer, refill their wells of creativity and relax.  As writers we need to read and we need to keep expanding our experiences.  Can't do that fastened into the desk chair.

As writers we are lucky.  We are lucky because we love our jobs.  We love sharing in our particular way our own truths through the vehicle of story.  We have one of the best jobs in the world.