This weekend, I didn’t write much. I finished a chapter to one of my independent novels, Stellar. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I also managed to get Say No More, part three of the Say What You Want series, up on Amazon over the weekend. 🙂

Today, I spent the time working on some challenges for one of my LJ writing communities, writerverse. I kinda burned myself out on smut, I guess. I want to write other things, so I will, and I’m sure I’ll go back to work on something to publish by the end of the week. I’m doing…well, miserably would mean no sales whatsoever. So I’m not doing miserably. 😉 

I’ve also been spending more time reading, which is a thing I’ve been neglecting to do. I have so many books I want to read, and always feel like I have no time to actually read them. But I’ve been reading On Writing by Stephen King, because man, I love the guy’s work. I really do. Not to mention the writing lectures I’ve been watching on youtube, as well. I guess I’m kinda retreating a bit into my shell and trying to really apply the things I’m learning and taking in. 

This has been one hell of a year, though, in terms of struggles I’ve had to overcome (and am still overcoming). Here’s to hoping I can get this shit off the ground, for real. Because this is what I want to do. 

For you trouble, here’s a short nonfiction piece I wrote about some of the events that took place this weekend. The challenge was to write it without any dialogue. 🙂

You know you shouldn’t want to.

He stands beside you, eyes focused on the shelf of books in front of him. He has a slight smile on his face, fingers poised over the dusty pages. The little used record and book store is quiet, aside from the classic rock playing in the background. The college kid at the counter doesn’t speak, just leans back in his chair, eyes dull with boredom.

A book catches your eye: an A-Z Guide on Serial Killers. You point it out to your companion — you’re not quite ready to say date, just yet — and he laughs. Even offers to buy it for you (he knows you don’t have much), and you hesitate. His grey eyes focus on you, and all you can manage is a smile in return. Kiss him crosses your mind, and it’s not the first time it has that evening.

You curse his height. At your paltry five-two, he’s an entire foot taller than you are. All you want is to drape your arms over his shoulders and pull him close. Instead, you turn away, busying yourself with sorting through the rest of the books, seeing if any others catch your eye. You don’t want to go home, after all, not to your “wife,” who is no doubt still chasing your child around the house.

But that’s not the only reason you don’t want to go home. You want to keep this feeling, this sense of freedom and ease. You know you can’t have that at home, not with a child and an ex and your brother all living in the same space as the two of you. Still, even here, you can’t let your defenses down. Can’t look up at him with that smile that hasn’t seemed to left your face since you left the house — he asked you not to, after all. He said he wasn’t the only one being cute — which he phrased that way because your mouth likes to move before your brain can stop it, and you asked him to stop being so damn adorable only moments ago. 

The admission is enough to turn your face red. You know it is, because he just grins at you — that self-satisfied, overly amused grin that then turns into a smirk as he enjoys the fact that he’s flustered you — again. And the attention and the freedom to actually enjoy it is enough for you to look towards him again.

It’s only moments later when the two of you walk out of the store, purchases made without a fuss. You tease each other, alternating between admissions of pretend-hate and others of a more intimate, quiet nature. He knowsyou’re still married, after all. He lives with your ex, too. On the ride home, you get to talking. Questions rise and fall with answers. It’s a date. A real, bonafide date

The car ride isn’t nearly long enough. When you walk inside together, you ask if your wife needs any help with your child. It’s bedtime, now, and he refuses to stay in his room. Not unusual, just part of the routine. When she replies that she doesn’t need help, the two of you head upstairs to your room.

Neither one of you has made a move. You talk, letting comfortable silence overtake you both. Soon, you’re both on your bed, BBC’s Sherlock playing on his laptop and you scoot close to him, bodies touching and his arm around your shoulders. Comfortable. Warm. Things you haven’t felt with your wife in so long, you’re not sure you can remember the last time you have. Perhaps it was before she gave up, tearfully telling you she doesn’t want to continue things anymore. That she’s had enough.

But those thoughts don’t cross your mind, not as you look up at him in between quiet comments about the show. One look and you know he wants to lean in — he even does, but you turn away. One of you whispers that you shouldn’t. Maybe it was both of you. You don’t really remember.

When your eyes meet again, though, your heart skips a beat and your body’s on autopilot, your lips pressing hard against his before you can tell yourself no, all over again. He responds with such enthusiasm you’re left breathless, your face hot as you pull away and your own grin taking up half your face. 

You know you shouldn’t, but you damn well did it anyway — and you couldn’t be any happier.

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