And like all writers, I think I have to give it a name. A title. A brand of some sort. I'm calling it "putoffititus."
You see, for the past three months I've been struggling to finish the last book in my Red Hand Conspiracy series. No, that's not true. I've been avoiding finishing the last book in this series. Oh, I open the document every week, add a thousand words, go back and read over earlier chapters. Delete this. Add that. Play with it. Massage it here and there, but work hard at it? Nah.
Both my agent and editor are asking me how soon I can have Jazzbeat of Surrender completed. I'm at 43,000 words with only 50-52,000 words to go. If I'd buckle down, I could have it done in a month, or so.
My problem? I can't stay focused on it. Oh, I'm writing. Writing every day. I'm just not working on the right project. I've written and submitted a novella. Submitted and sold two short stories. One publisher has asked for another short story set in the same historical town. And my creative mind is chomping at the bit to forge ahead on that project.
I also entered the Golden Acorn Contest and took third place in their paranormal division--and I've never written paranormal before. I mean, sometimes I think I live a paranormal existence, but write it? No. Never. At least not until I was supposed to focus on Jazzbeat.
So what the heck is wrong?
Short attention span?
Lack of discipline?
You see, I'm coming up on something I'm not sure I can handle realistically. I have to reveal the head of this group of terrorists that have run rampant in the first two books. In short, I've painted myself into a corner. I've hinted and alluded to who the person might be, but of course the real villian is someone else. And I'm waiting for the rascal to cooperate. As if a terrorist would. Right?
You won’t believe this email. I’m sitting in a French safe house, eating caviar and drinking champagne with handsome government agent, Niko Reynard. He’s wearing nothing but silk pajama bottoms and mega doses of sex appeal. I’m in big trouble, little sister. He’s kissed me several times and given me a foot massage that nearly caused spontaneous combustion. I'm feeling strangely virginal compared to the sexual prowess this thirty-year-old man exudes.
When I came to Paris for a bit of adventure, I never imagined I’d foil a bombing attempt, karate-kick two men, and run from terrorists while wearing a new pair of stilettos. I met a German musician, a gay poet from Australia, and the most delightful older French woman.
Don’t worry. I’m safe…the jury’s still out on yummy Niko, though. The more champagne I drink, the less reserved I feel. What an unforgettable fortieth birthday!
Book two takes place in Paris and Budapest and has no cover yet, but I can share the blurb of Rain is a Love Song.
When Gwen Morningstar and her daughter travel to Paris for the birth of her sister’s baby, both step into a quagmire of danger. Her daughter’s kidnapping and eventual rescue propel Gwen to join in the pursuit of the abductors, The Red Hand terrorist group. She’s determined to keep her daughter safe, even if it means traveling undercover to Budapest with counterterrorist agent, Jean-Luc LeFevre, a Frenchman with his own brand of justice—and danger.
Jean-Luc’s assignment, working with Gwen, an American crime scene photographer with just enough training to get them killed, does not please him. She takes too many risks and drives him to distraction. Never mind the eye-tick she gives him every time she makes him angry. As his feelings for her grow, he’s determined to keep both Mother and daughter safe.
But can he, when the tentacles of The Red Hand are far-reaching, both abroad and in the States?
So now the time has come to put on my big girl writing pants and finish this project. No more side-trips to other storylines. What about you? Are you your own worst enemy at times?