Rediscovering my Creative Spark

So, it has been a few weeks since I released my second book, Brush Strokes. The reception has been mixed, and I’ve been trying to disguise the fact that I have had a series of meltdowns these past few weeks. It’s hard when you are so proud of something, but it fails to connect with everyone. But that’s unreasonable, isn’t it? To expect everyone to resonate with your work?

Book release aside, I have been neglecting my writing practice for months now, ever since I returned to the workforce full-time as a copywriter. I have a holiday romance novella on the back burner, and despite being psyched out of my mind about it, I find I have little energy to create. These past few weeks haven’t helped. In fact, there was a day or two there that I vowed to never write again.

However, for whatever reason, I was compelled to return to my work in progress today. Maybe it’s the cannabis or the mimosas I had, but I walked away from my writing session feeling really fucking good–about myself and my writing. I want to feel that way all of the time, and it’s apparent to me that the only way to do that is to pick myself up off of the ground, dust off my knees, and get back on that bicycle.

I feel so good about what I have written, and care so little about how it is received, that I wanted to share an excerpt from my upcoming holiday romance novella, tentatively titled “The Christmas Script”:

My eyes widen when he reaches across the table and holds my hands in his. They are large and rough, dwarfing mine completely in his grasp. I look up and he is straining to catch my eye.

“Is this about last night?” he says. The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk.

I feel blood rushing to my cheeks. “Am I that transparent?”

“Kind of,” he laughs. “But that’s not a bad thing. I promise.”

I remove my hands from his and cup my blushing face. “I’m sorry if that was a mistake.” I let my words linger, but I don’t want there to be any confusion about what I mean, so I whisper, “You know… The kiss.”

I can tell his cheeks are turning red at the very mention of our lips touching, even underneath that pitch dark beard. He retreats into his seat a little bit and looks at me, horrified.

“You think it was a mistake?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Not a mistake. I just thought you–”

“I what?” he asks.

He waits patiently for me to answer. I take a deep breath and spit out the words I am too afraid to hear. “You don’t like me. You hardly know me. We just got caught up in the moment.”

Kristopher leans back into his seat and thoughtfully strokes his throat, his fingers scratching the stubble. I can see the veins beneath his skin and I suddenly have the urge to leap across the table and bite at his neck like a vampire. But then my eyes shift to his and I can tell he is visibly hurt.

“I guess you’re right, I don’t know you that well,” he pauses. Then he looks me in the eye, a sincerity in his gaze. “But I would like to.”