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I shouldn't be thinking about cheating. Not so soon after getting married. Not ever, really.
But when your husband calls your latest romance too vanilla, and that's why it isn't selling, where else is your writer-brain supposed to go?
He meant it as literary critique.
I took it as an existential crisis.
I'm not planning to cheat on my husband—of course not—just writing about someone who's reckless enough to do it.
Been listing tropes that would probably make Richard stiffen and adjust his tie if he knew where the thoughts of his wifey spiraled next.
Infidelity. Obsessions. Characters who kiss people they shouldn't under stairwells lit like synthwave dreams.
I'm not thinking abouthim.
Not anymore.
Richard is good, solid. The kind of man who leaves no room for ghosts.
So I'm not thinking about the one who taught me what it felt like to crave someone too much.
For once, I made a decision and stuck to it.
And I haven't put any of that cheating scandal on paper yet.
All I've managed is the title: Manuscript No. 4. In boldfont.
My lip's numb from chewing it, and all I've discovered is that impatience has a taste—it's freaking metallic.
My first book catapulted me close to starlight. The second reminded me I didn't know how to breathe in the stratosphere. The third... let's just say that even with a parachute, I've never been great under pressure.
"Chaos feeds creativity," I read the sticker on my keyboard.
Sure. That or anxiety... Mostly anxiety.
I've hit writer's block before. It comes with the territory of selling your wildest thoughts disguised as fiction.
I feel a story burning behind my ribs for months now, though, just can't grasp it... which is why I'm digging low.
Maybe it started with the dream. You know, that kind that sticks with you for days after waking up?
I've had my share of those. Been a terrible sleeper since sixteen, when my life turned upside down.
This one was different.
I was drifting through a flooded San Francisco in a tiny boat and then looked up.
There was a man at a window and below him, a parade of women vying for his attention, but he had eyes only for me. Not just attraction, but recognition. Like:there you are. Finally. I've been waiting for you.
He jumped. The splash broke my boat, the water pulling me so deep I knew I was going to drown, and I screamed—terrified. Not because I was going to die—that's the weirdest thing. No. Because I couldn't reach for him.
The whole week after? I wandered around the house thinking about him over and over, even felt bad for it, as if I was cheating on Richard with a figment of REM sleep.
How crazy is that?
Anyway, I need to get out of the house because I won't write anything like this.
