I’ve written 24 erotic romances now, and while a few knit together effortlessly, most of them felt like work. I stare out the window over my desk and think, “what happens next,” “what should he/she do/say now,” and hardest of all, “how do I convey that?” Since I’m a “pantser,” I do my plotting on the fly while I’m at the keyboard.
When I get hung up, I leave my computer and go for a walk. That usually breaks the ideas loose. I try not to stall out on individual words or phrases during the first draft. My goal is to get the story out. But I probably delete as much as I type, writing a sentence, no, that’s not right, then backspacing over it.
Like my cat who will suddenly sprint around the room, I get bursts of inspiration and speed, but it burns out and then I plod along at 500 words per hour, 750 if I’m truckin’.
But out of labor and toil, magic happens.
At some point, especially if there has been time between writing and editing, when I read the completed story, I am amazed by my own creation, by characters who seem as real as people I know, snippets of dialogue, bits of humor, clever scenarios I never dreamed I could have thought of. There is a point in every story where I sit back and say, “Damn, this is good! How did I do that?”
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