All in a Day's Work.

I don’t know about you, but when I tell people that I’m a writer, I get one of two reactions. Either they tell me they have a book they’ve always wanted to write, or they nod their head sagely. What does that mean? I don't know. I stopped trying to figure it out.

I have to pick up my preschooler at 10:45 every day. I drop her off at 8:00; I have that much time to write and so I do. The other day, I am heading at breakneck speed toward the inevitable hot and heavy between my hero and my heroine (and can I say it’s about time, the tension has been thick in the air for the last several chapters) when I remember, out of the blue, library books are due and I haven’t found the missing library book yet. My fingers pause mid-sentence; I glance at the clock, back to the words on the screen, back to the clock and sigh. There is just not enough time. My poor characters, it's damn close to coitus interruptus. I mean they've been waiting for this moment and they. are. so. close.

‘I’m sorry, characters’, I plead, ‘a library fine is a library fine. Can you, um, hold position until I get back?’

‘Tease’, they growled, voices still ragged from shared passion. They might have said something else but I saved and diminished the document before further guilt could be heaped upon my head.

So now I have something new to tell those people who ask what it’s like to be a mother and a erotic romance writer: The distance between your hero’s lips finding the heroine’s breast to looking frantically for the Saggy Baggy Elephant is surprisingly short.