WeWriWa: Back to the Keyboard with HER TEXAS HERO
You don’t realize how far removed you’ve gotten from the things you love until you open your WIP and see the last entry was over a month ago. And that was to do some editing, not to create new material. Michigan Romance Writers to the rescue! Our off shoot of the former ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA is still going strong with monthly meetings both in person and virtual but the highlight has always been our writing retreats. In July, I got back to the business of writing theeeeen slowly tapered off until my early morning hours at the keyboard were more for scrolling than creating paragraphs. I just couldn’t get BICHOK (butt in chair hands on keys) to create new words. The solution – an escape from that harsh reality with a writers weekend on the other side of the state with four other enthusiastic wordsmiths. Three days in a rental house on a wooded lot near Lake Michigan. Let the creating begin . . . on my historical western romance. Here’s a NEW sample from HER TEXAS HERO . . . The Excerpt
Over 30 new pages in three days (and that’s after reading the 90 already written to get up to speed . . . and still going strong since I got home. Now . . . to keep up with that habit of forward progress!
Cool night air stroked across her cheek, coaxing Martine toward a reluctant wakefulness. Pain was the first thing to greet her, an exquisite agony battering every inch like a mixing spoon in a batter bowl. Fear came second, in a quiver of frantic alarm.
Where was she? What was she doing outside on the ground . . . and what had happened to inspire such spikes of dread and misery?
Instead of forcing her eyes open against the swelling determined to seal them shut, she reached out with her other senses to get an idea of her surroundings . . . and, unable to rely upon her tattered memories . . . with whom.
…and a bit more . . .
Then, circumstances came back in a brutal tide. Circumstances that crushed her spirit but didn’t explain her situation.
She was tucked into a quality bedroll by a campfire that cast warmth upon her face. A slow inhale filled in the blank of memory. Of cotton shirt and warm male. Of the young black-haired cowboy who’d caught her up in protective arms and quieted her with reassuring words.
“You’re safe. I gotcha.”
What have you found gets you out of a writing rut?
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