Since last year I’ve been blessed/cursed with an overactive muse. A steady stream of new ideas have come to mind, often times threatening to derail me from my current project.
Three times I’ve had “Shower Epiphanies.” These are times when I enter the shower with nothing in mind, just letting the thoughts float, mingling and mixing as they will. By the time I’m out of the shower I’m desperately holding onto first lines, ending up writing them down on a piece of paper while still dripping wet and wearing only a towel. Yes, the glamourous life of a writer!
This happened, occurrence #3, yesterday. I’m in the middle of drafting one project and have promised myself whatever I tackle next will be an edit. So this little idea will be stuck on my notepad for the foreseeable future. I’m a pantster and my ideas usually start like this. I don’t know where this is going, I haven’t fully developed my characters. Depending on how much they speak to me will depend on how quickly this page turns into more.
In the interest of giving my newest idea some attention before I shelve the project, here’s what I wrote yesterday morning. It hasn’t been typed into a document yet. Meaning no editing, no cleaning, just the rough words on the page. And yet, I’m excited by what has come out and can’t wait to see where the story goes.
Nothing said “Just Friends” like being tangled in a sweaty, naked mess with the ex–again. Somehow Tamara couldn’t resist Max. Sure, his drop-dead gorgeous six foot frame helped. More, being together was a comfort, a “been there, done that, scratch my itch” kinda thing.
When lust hit, all the reasons they crashed and burned meant nothing until the heat wore off–which started exactly two point five seconds ago. Now they moved awkwardly into the “oh shit, I just fucked my best friend” portion of the evening.
Tamara slipped out of bed and dressed with her back to Max. “What caused this to happen this time?” One minute they were talking the next minute–holy crap, how did her bra end up on top of the lamp?
“You were ranting and raving about your date with teeth guy and I offered to lick your mouth, plaque and all,” Max’s deep voice answered.
She shuddered and turned as Max zipped the fly of his jeans. Right. Andrew, a dental hygienist working his way through his doctorate. Killed the date when he insisted of brushing after dinner and was disgusted she had no plans to do the same.
Max turned to pick up his shirt. He pulled it on, but not before she caught the raised red skin of another new tattoo. It was still so strange, when he’d been hers he didn’t have a single one. “What’s with the wolf, Max?”
He turned and glared, his yummy washboard abs–also new–now covered by a skull tee-shirt. “It’s Ax.”
Right. Well, he’d just have to deal. “You’ve been Max for most of my life. Ax rhymes with Ass and Ex.”
“Both of which I am.”