Texan and a new project...

I was finally able to sit down and finish the edits for Texan a few weeks ago. It's been a crazy, but amazingly wonderful year, so it was only fitting that this book wrapped up towards the end of 2016. It published just a few days before Thanksgiving and I was thankful. Thankful that after 20 years, Morgan and Joe's story finally saw the light of day and thankful that I didn't have to look it at anymore.
As good as you may think something you create is (and I think Texan is a great story); you still get sick of seeing it after so many drafts and I was wholly sick of that book. Whether I was sick of it or not though, I was elated and overjoyed with the way it turned out.
There's some books that just seem to write themselves. Texan wasn't one of them. Maybe the first draft back in 1996 flowed easily, but after picking it up again, nearly five years ago, I gotta say, it was slow going. I dedicated it to my daughter and if you read my blogs, you know why.
Kids, man.... (Insert facepalm here)
While Texan was a harder book for me to write, even if I did love the characters and their story- the new project I'm working on is literally pouring out effortlessly. I'm excited about it. More excited than I was for either Bimini book; even to the point that I'm dreaming about this new project- literally.
Writing can sometimes be a bi-polar experience. You get all these thoughts and feelings in your head/heart and you know they're not yours. They belong to the characters you're creating. But, if you're creating the character, doesn't that in some way mean that they're actually YOUR feelings and YOUR thoughts? Maybe writing allows the writer an opportunity to explore those subconscious articles of emotion and emote them in the form of fiction which allows us to deny ownership? I don't know. I just know that these new individuals are coming to life on paper in a way I've never experienced before. It's more personal, somehow. Darker. Grittier. And unlike anything I've ever written or thought I would write.
The momentum to which this project is progressing has me a little surprised. I'm a pretty big procrastinator when it comes to writing because I abhor editing so much. I also hate sitting still. If we're friends on facebook, likely you've seen my mother type-yelling at  me to get a book finished. I've got about a ten page production average under normal circumstances and I'd have told you a few weeks ago that was on a good day. Lately though, because this story has taken on its own life, it's more thirty to forty pages daily, causing me to go without showering, washing dishes, and to ignore texts for fear of distraction or losing the train of thought I'm riding. Yeah, I'm breaking all kinds of personal records over here... Is there a record for how many days one can stay in the same pair of pajama pants? (I'm only sorta kidding when I ask this question.)
With Texan or either Bimini books, it was more of an, "Oh, I wrote two pages... I guess I'll go get a shower and fix my hair..." Which led to doing laundry, playing with dogs, catching up on Netfix, mopping floors and just about any damn thing else except parking my ass in front of my computer.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this new productive streak I've found keeps up. If it does, perhaps I'll be able to release this before the end of 2017. At any rate, wish me luck.
Peace out, my pretties.

You'll find the link for Texan included here. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MTS1MRU
And in the event, you'd like to follow me on facebook, my author page is this: https://www.facebook.com/caribbeandreaming/
Twitter: @LucyMagilicutt2

I'm notoriously bad at adulting...

Today, I had to make some phone calls... Sounds like a trivial thing but holding "business" conversations for me, is pretty much like having a root canal. Aside from that, I hate talking on the phone.
I live a pretty great life. It's weird, but it's great. I try really hard not to take anything for granted, but I'm also notoriously bad at "adulting". It's nothing new. I've always struggled with the complexities of being a grown-up. I attribute a lot of this to the fact that in my head, I'm still pretty much 13 and giggling over words like "penis".  People have used words like "cock" and "penis" in my presence and when I laugh, they say, "My God, you write romance novels. Can you be just a little bit grown up about this?" No. No, I can't. Yes, I write romance novels, which sometimes contain graphic sex scenes, but no one is here when I write those scenes. If they were, they'd see me stop typing and start giggling. It's just who I am. Maturity never caught up with me and I hope it never does. I don't do serious. Not well, anyway. The day you grow up is the day you stop playing. The day you stop playing, is the day you get old. I don't want to be old. I don't mind raising in age number wise, because age is just that... a number. But I refuse to grow up. Life's too short.
I look at people younger than me and see how hard they're trying to be mature and I'm kinda perplexed at the need they have to prove their adult status.
That's not to say I can't adult when I have to... I mean, I raised a child who is now fully grown (she'll be 21 this year) and did it without any major catastrophes or upsets. She's healthy, she's happy, she's as well adjusted as she could possibly be after living 20 years with me as her mother. Parenting was the easiest part of adulthood, now that I think about it. On the list of adulting duties I hate most, it doesn't even register, but then- I got lucky with my kid. Somehow, I managed to avoid the curse that all mothers (mine) place on their unruliest of children (me). You know the one... "I hope you have a kid who is exactly like you..." I lucked out. My daughter made parenting a breeze, so I adulted really well, in my opinion for the 18 years that she was under my care. Obviously, I was able to keep her alive.
I successfully adulted at my places of employment as well. Most of the time... though I hated every minute of every time I had to put on my "serious" face and handle something. I hated it, but I still did it and did it for years on end until I'd raised my kid and finally decided that along with the responsibility of raising a child, which was now over, my responsibility of working LONG, grueling hours to feed said child, were also at an end. I didn't have to pretend to hold politicians and local community leaders in positions of reverence anymore. I was free to finally be me, which is decidedly irreverent about damn near everything.
I've spent the last few years since leaving the work force, happily coasting on a minimal responsibility wave, that occasionally crashed to shore when things like taxes or a broken air conditioner happened. For the most part, however, my minimal responsibilty wave has pretty much ebbed and flowed out in the free, open ocean of "I don't have to do anything I don't want to." And I like it that way just fine, thanks.
I've had a few people ask me when I plan on going back to work. It's crossed my mind a few times in moments of what I like to call insanity. I'll have flash of conscience that says, "Jeez, Lori... Maybe you should just go back to work." But then, clarity returns, and I laugh at the idea. I work for myself. I do freelance graphics, I'm licensed clergy which allows me to perform weddings (my favorite thing to do) as well as provide spiritual counseling for those who need it. I'm also a Reiki practitioner, and of course, those those trashy romance novels I write... None of those jobs pay really well, but I decidedly chose a life of low income in exchange for the life of stress I lived when I worked for others. It was an exchange I don't regret. I don't miss adulting on a daily basis, either. I love being able to sit out on my back deck with a book in the middle of the day, if I want. I love having the option of composing these blogs or working on a new story in my underwear or pajamas. My life is great. I can't complain about a single damn thing. I'm poor, but I'm happy. I'm out of work, but I'm busy.

Dolph Lundren in a field...

So, I have this friend.... And while everyone in my circle is pretty damned talented in their own right, again, I say... I have this friend.
We'll just call him Viktor.
In the 40 (almost 41) years I've been alive, I've known some colorful characters, but Viktor wins the award for the MOST colorful and the MOST creative person I've ever known.
Some would say there's not much difference in being a storyteller or a writer. I disagree. Most of us writers need a blank screen and a keyboard to get our thoughts out. We think better with our fingers. A storyteller doesn't need any of that. The talent of verbal storytelling is a dying art and even more dying is the ability to create these stories on the fly, inventing complex characters and backgrounds. Viktor doesn't "re-tell" a story. He comes up with his own tales off the cuff and once he's on a roll, there's little to no stopping him.
I keep telling him to write them down, but he doesn't.
Last April, Viktor came and stayed at my house for a week. We had a fantastic time exploring North Georgia, visiting the Guidestones and various other places. It's one of those friendships where there's just an ease and an understanding, as well as a mutual love of coffee. So, every morning during his stay, as I stumbled from my bedroom, I'd find Viktor sitting at my bar, coffee already made. I'd pour myself a cup and he'd open his mouth to speak. Before I even knew it, it was noon and in my estimation, he'd verbally written about 300 pages of the most fantastic story I'd ever heard, complete with voices for each character. Sometimes, he'd be well into Volume 2 of the same story before I'd realize the time.
But... Just for me, Viktor always includes one main character; Dolph Lundren. Some of you might remember him. He played Ivan Drago in Rocky IV (one of my all time favorite movies). He was also He-Man in the live action movie. I've had a thing for Dolph since I was around 10, I guess. I mean, come on.... Ivan Drago was pretty damn hot and while I wanted Rocky to win because you know, it was Rocky... There was a part of me that was just waking up to the fact that I liked boys and that newly formed pre-pubescent part of my brain really, really liked Dolph. A lot. I liked Dolph so much and watched Rocky IV so many times, I could sing the Russian National Anthem. Yeah.... true story.
I've only shared this with a handful of people, until just now. But Viktor knows and so, Dolph always factors into whatever story he creates, complete with the Russian accent, which Viktor does beautifully.  He always places Dolph in the same position though... working... shirtless... in the field of a commune during the fall of civilization. The sun glints off his sweaty pectorals as he runs a hand through his damp, blonde hair. Suddenly, our eyes meet across said field. Dolph stops working, strides up to me and announces that he's been looking for me all his life.
I really should record Viktor when he starts storytelling. It's amazing. 
I haven't blogged since May. Maybe you noticed, maybe you didn't, but if you look at the last entry, Viktor commented. I was surprised to know he read my blogs so when he commented on one of them and I inquired about his reading them; he said and I quote "I'm not reading your stupid romance novels... but I do like hearing about your everyday life..."
His comment on the blog however, was that I should write about Dolph... so here you go, Viktor. But I couldn't write about Dolph, without including him because he really is a gigantic part of my life and when I don't feel like writing, I get a text from Viktor that says, "You have stuff in your soul that you need to get out. Write, sister."
I'd like to thank Viktor for being an inspiration to me. He doesn't know that he is, but his stories and his knowledge of me does inspire me a lot. I'm not so good at always saying what's in my heart or on my mind, but somehow, he always knows. Even from almost a thousand miles away.
And thanks also to Dolph. I still think you're hot.

Going Way Back....

I blogged in March about the struggles of non-creativity and about finally getting back to where I wanted to be, somewhat. I'm happy to report that this is still true.
Maybe I needed that creative break to allow the stories to build up once again in my head, or maybe they were there all along, waiting for the nothingness to recede so that they could come to life. I don't know. What I do know is that my head is full of new ideas, new characters and new plots, all waiting to be fleshed out and given form.
In order for me to do this, though, I have to finally wrap up the one project I've been dragging my feet on. Since Sunday, I've forced myself to finish the editing work on "Texan", which will HOPEFULLY be released no later than mid-June- though I've continually pushed the release date back.
Texan is an old story for me. A long-term project that has spanned the last 18 years, it has spent the majority of that time in a old, (now crumbling) plastic grocery bag... so much for those things being non-biodegradable. I spent two years solid working on it, originally; beginning in the Spring of 1996. My daughter was roughly a year old when I started writing it, and since she pretty much refused to sleep at all for the first three years of her life, I had plenty of time in the middle of the night while she was happily laughing and playing- wide awake- to work on the story. So that's what I did.
In January of 1998, with only three chapters left to complete the book, I took a chance and sent out a query letter, just to see if I could generate any interest. This was before everything became electronic and you had to print out your submissions, take it to the post office and mail off the gigantic packet. I sent my letter and the first three chapters of the book, thinking it might be a long shot, but worth a try. Seven weeks later, I received a letter in the mail from the publishing company I'd sent it to, asking for the completed manuscript because they liked what they'd read so far. I was ecstatic. I could barely believe it.
Over the course of the next few days, I worked furiously on finishing the book. On the final night, I set the pages to print, making sure there was plenty of paper in the tray and fresh ink in the machine and went to bed to the sound of my old dot-matrix printer doing its thing. I was so proud and pleased with myself. Here I was, 23 years old and may very well have a book published. Every time I thought about it, I'd get teary-eyed.
I got up the next morning, excited to package the manuscript. I walked into the spare room that doubled as my office to find that the computer had shut down and only a few chapters had printed.
I tried to turn the computer on. Nothing. I tried unplugging and plugging it back. Nothing. I called the store where I'd bought it and they suggested I bring it in for them to have a look.
"It's fried, ma'am," the technician told me when he finally came up from the back.
"What do you mean, it's fried?" I asked in horror.
"I mean that it's destroyed. There's no way to fix it. I can't even retrieve any data from it."
"How could that happen? It's only a few years old? You guys built it." I accused.
He scratched his head, his cheeks going a little red. "Do you have children?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" I was so angry and decided it was all his fault.
"It would explain a lot. Like how a half of a green crayon got shoved in the floppy drive."
"Huh?" I asked, adding confusion the mix.
He nodded. "Yeah. There was a green crayon in the floppy drive. When the computer heated up last night, it melted the crayon, which dripped onto the motherboard, frying the whole system."
"You've got to be kidding me..."
"I wish I were," he said. "But it's totally destroyed. I can't do anything for it."
I'd like to tell you I handled that news with grace. That I put my chin up and accepted the profound loss of not only the computer dying but all that hard work dying right a long beside it. But I can't. I cried. I cried hard and I cried loud. It's probably one of few times I've ever allowed myself such an overt display of emotion in public or in private. I'm not a crier. I never have been. But that day, I was a sobbing, emotional wreck. Unable to continue a conversation with the man, largely because I was incoherent by this point, I went out to the parking lot, sat down in my '79 Firebird and cried some more. I cried the entire way home... I cried after I got home, well into the night and the next day. I had to call the publishing company that was interested in the book and tell them I wouldn't be sending them a completed manuscript because the book died with the computer and there was no retrieving it. I didn't even have the funds to replace the unit.
I wanted to be mad at my kid, but I couldn't. She was too cute, too sweet and too innocent for me to blame, so I blamed myself for leaving that office door open and giving her access to that room. I should have known better.
About a year later, I was finally able to replace the unit, but when I tried to recreate the story off of the few chapters I had (the publishing company returned the original first three chapters)- I couldn't seem to get my head back in the game. I put those pitiful remaining chapters in a bag, stuck them in my closet and forgot about it and writing entirely for the next couple of years.
In 2001, I landed a job at a small newspaper in Georgia, so we packed up our house in North Carolina and moved. It was pretty fantastical to me that I'd gotten a job as a journalist when I'd spent the last few years chasing dogs and feral cats for the county animal shelter. Time passed by and I started working on the first Bimini book. Every once in a while, I'd think about the work I'd lost on that first project and my heart would sink all over again. Bimini took five years from start to finish. I was working two jobs, plus raising my child, so writing for pleasure was reserved for late at night or on days when I was able to eek out some spare time. I became so consumed over the first in the Caribbean Crime series, that I once again forgot entirely about the dead book from long ago. It's chapters still in the same plastic bag, now in a box down in the basement of our home, labled "CLOSET JUNK".
I was 35, my daughter was 15.
It was shortly after Bimini became published that she had been down in the basement going through some things, when she came to me and held up the plastic bag.
"What's this?" She asked.
I laughed. "That is a tragedy. You can throw it out. I'm never going to finish it anyway."
"Can I read it?"
I remember groaning. "Trust me, don't waste your time. It's not worth it."
"I'm going to read it," she stated.
"Whatevs... Do what you want," I replied, going back to cooking supper for the evening.
The next day, I got home from work. I was tired, irritable and so over my job, I physically got sick every time I thought about walking through the door of the paper where I worked.
She met me at the door, those first three chapters, now yellow and curled at the edges, flopping in her hand.
"Why have you not finished this?" she demanded.
I shrugged. "I did finish it, it just didn't survive the printing process."
I told her the story about the green crayon.
"I thought you said having me didn't wreck your life..."
"It didn't," I laughed. "You were and still are the best thing I ever did."
"I'd have put me up for adoption. That was your life's work."
"No," I said. "You are my life's work. Much better than any words on paper and probably a much better return on my investment; especially if you pull that math grade up."
She waved that idea way. "Seriously, Mom. You have to finish this. You have to. Promise me you will."
"I tried to rewrite it, babe." I told her. "I couldn't. It's a dead story."
"Do it." She slapped the pages down on our bar in the kitchen and stomped to her room.
Later that night as I sat there eating my dinner, I leafed through the pages, rereading what I'd written all those years ago. The more I read, the more my mind conjured ways to change and develop the story and before I knew it, I was sitting at my laptop, transcribing those first three chapters with revisions. With in a week, I had more than half of it done. I let her read what I'd gotten down so far and she grinned from ear to ear.
"This is even better than before," she said. "Keep going. You need to do this."
And I think she was right. My daughter has always possessed a wisdom far beyond her years, constantly surprising me with her insight.
Here and there, I continued to work on what I now began to call "Texan" but I had people asking for a second Bimini novel as well, so I began to work on them together; alternating from one story to other on different days. The second Bimini began to consume me as much as the first had and pretty soon, Texan was once again on the back burner. The day that Bimini: Blood on the Sand was published, I forced myself to write the final pages to conclude Texan, even staying up all night until it was finished.
I emailed the completed manuscript to one of my best friends and spirit sister. She's a master at editing and giving me ideas in a story line. Three editions later, I'm finishing up my own rewrites to the story and have finally designed my cover for a book that is nearly twenty years old. The story is completely different than it was when it started; but then again, so am I.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...Turn and face the strange...

It may seem like this title is a wink to the late David Bowie, whom while I appreciated what he brought to music and the screen, I'm not particularly a fan of, but it's not. Not really anyway, beyond the fact those words of that song do strike a chord.
These have truly been "strange" times for me.
Last year, I completed the second book in the Bimini series. It's held its own for the most part on sales though I have done little to no marketing for it. That's not bragging, but merely giving a testament to how lazy I can truly be when I want.
Something happened after the second book was released; or I guess instead of "something", you could say, NOTHING happened. By nothing I mean that almost from the moment the second book went live on Amazon, every bit of creative energy and inspiration went out of me.
At first, I thought maybe this was because I exhausted my brain getting that project wrapped up so I could start a third, unrelated book- which I did... but one can only stare at a blank screen for so long before you give up and move on. Which is what I tried to.
I'm wholly a creative person... if I'm not writing, I'm painting, if I'm not painting, I'm refinishing some odd piece of furniture in my home, if I'm not doing those things, I might be tinkering on my 100 year old, out of tune piano just for the sake of doing something that feeds my soul. Sometimes I etch glass or work with clay... you get the point. Suddenly... there was nothing there. Nothing in my head, nothing in my heart. I wasn't depressed or in crisis... in a sense I was just "nothing". I'd wake up and look at some of the unfinished art projects laying around and be like, "meh, who cares."
It was literally the first time in my life where my hands weren't in something. No wood stain under my nails, no paint on my face, no clay colored skin...
It affected me on a professional level, as well. I started turning down clients, preferring to pretty much stay in solitude and cringing if I had to interact with anyone. I even stopped practicing my spirituality.
Though I had no idea what the problem was, I knew myself well enough to know this behavior was not normal for me. This sense of nothingness consumed me. I understood it wasn't normal on a rational level but on a base physical level, I felt powerless to stop it. I even tried fighting it by forcing myself to sit in front of a blank canvas, or a blank word document. I did this a lot, in the beginning- thinking if I just made myself do it, I'd get over the block. But, I didn't.
Pretty soon, I started blaming my lack of creative expression or will to produce on different things. "The house is a wreck, so I can't work because I'm smothering..." (I don't handle clutter well and am admittedly somewhat OCD)
"The dogs are barking, I can't work with this noise..."
The list goes on.
But finally, one day, it happened. I heard that internal voice after months of total silence. I heard it say in its most hood voice, "Girrrrl..." And then everything that had been nothing inside me, broke loose. That inner voice, some call it our higher self, let me have it for about two days solid.
It might sound a little nutty, but it's no less true. This inner me pointed out things I'd been refusing to see. It pointed out how I'd started to go way off track long before the second book was released. It pointed out how I'd given a particular person so much of my energy and power that even when they exited my life, I was still pouring unnecessary time and effort into feelings of betrayal and distrust. This person was like family and they'd done me horribly wrong, but in reality, that was her bad... it was mine for allowing it to fester inside me for so long after she'd gone. In the midst of that, I'd also allowed myself to get bullied into things that didn't serve my greater good, but was the path of least resistance. I saw clearly, for the first time in a long time, how I'd LET myself get off my path and overly consumed by other people's issues, or expectations of me. It wasn't their fault. They were just doing what people do. It was mine. I hadn't realized until that moment how emotionally overloaded I'd become and why the "nothingness" had no choice but to take over, flipping the switch on everything.
I realized also, that there were certain friendships or relationships I'd done a great disservice to because of this. I had been approaching them from a place of ego. Ego on some people wears well. On me, not so much. When I choose to live in my ego, things tend to go horribly wrong, so I learned a long time ago to try to check this aspect of self. But that had fallen by the wayside, as well, along with all the years of grueling self-work. All because I allowed myself to put my time, energy and focus into matters that didn't really deserve or serve my greater purpose.
It reminded me, and I think I genuinely needed the reminder- that everyone we meet has something to teach us, even if those lessons are a bitch and make us confront the darker side of who we are when no one (but ourselves) is looking. And how sometimes, we'll even turn a blind eye to our own insight because being confronted with our darker self makes us as uncomfortable as it would make others if they were to see who we are behind the pleasant mask most of us wear for the sake of society.
Once all this became clear for me, the words returned, the music started playing and the connectedness I'd always felt for humanity, nature and self came back, also.
Has it been easy? No. But, I think maybe, just maybe, I needed to let myself go sideways in order to get back to where I needed to be and move beyond. Growth is change and change can be very strange.

It Only Took Three Years....

Never let it be said that I do anything in a hurry... It's not because I'm a huge procrastinator- I take care of the stuff that needs my immediate attention- but I'm famous for putting off projects. I'm also famous for getting in my own way.
It's been a rough two years. There's been a lot of prioritizing, downsizing, and all around general trying to figure out where to go from each new point I've found myself at. I'm not complaining. Struggle is growth and I've grown a lot since my last blog post in 2013. Writing has always been something of an outlet for me, but what happens when the words won't come? When you have no idea what to say and you lose all interest in even trying to peck out the simplest line? If you're me, you just wait it out. I'm a master at waiting it out.
Through all the challenges and the trails of the last few years, writing slipped down to the last thing on my to-do list. Not only did I not really have the time write, but I genuinely had no desire to. Until finally, one day back in June, I woke up and it seemed to click. I sat down at my computer and suddenly, the words were back. I finished two manuscripts in record time as well as rewrote the first Bimini book. The sequel is now completed and available for download on Amazon and print copies will be available in a few weeks (I hope) and I gotta say, I like the second book better than the first.
But, when I say I get in my own way, I mean it. Now that they're done, I'm on the fence about marketing. There's this internal struggle going on about blowing up people's newsfeeds on social media and trying to figure out the best way to market my books without doing exactly that. I've never been an egotist. I've never been one to say, "HEY LOOK WHAT I'VE DONE!" The only impressive thing I've done in my mind is not taking five years to write the second Bimini book. Go me!
I'm the type who tries to do whatever it is I might be doing, quietly. I've learned though, when marketing your work, you have to be loud and you have to make yourself heard. I'm not very good at that.  There comes a point for me, where I have to decide if I'm just writing these books to get the stories out of my head, or if I'm writing them because deep down, I really want to pursue this avenue of work?
This last question opens up a whole other line of commentary for me. Everyone knows there's not a lot of money to be made in writing these days and those that are financially successful at it, have a drive and commitment that I'm not sure I possess. Correction: I KNOW I don't. I've warned those who asked to co-write with me that I'm given to just putting down a project for years at a time. I mean, I could force myself to write, but I've never been very good at forcing myself to do anything I don't really want to do. So, lack of drive and commitment- check... And then there's the whole marketing thing. I really don't like peddling my wares and you kinda have to if you want to make it in this business. Lack of desire to market materials- check. Let's also not forget the inner voice that tells you, "you're not good enough to be marketing anything in an industry that is teeming with real talent." Lack of pride in work- check, check.
Through all of that, the truth really is more to the point of my hatred of drawing attention to myself. The older I get, the more I hate it.
So maybe I AM just writing to get the characters and their dialogs out of my head but whatever the reason, I'm just glad I'm able to do it again. If people like what I have to say, that's just the icing.
The link for the sequel is posted below. Hope you like it as much as I do.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Bimini+blood+on+the+sand

Lost in the Story

Surprisingly enough, though I haven't been diligent on writing this blog, I have been writing. Mostly technical stuff for the website development that I do on the side, but I have started working on the second Bimini book again.
In that though, I've been faced with a few issues. I'm kinda torn on how I want the story to go now. My thoughts and feelings from the original story line have changed a little bit and suddenly, I'm reading what I've written from a different perspective.
I want to keep the overall romantic involvement the same, but add a few different dynamics to our leading character's relationship with her leading male.
It's true that we write what we know, but in my case, that might be a little false. While I definitely have the Paganism and Craft experience necessary to keep the content of the book fairly accurate on a loosely based fictitious scale, I don't really have the in depth knowledge about the romance aspect of it. For that, I draw from an imagination that has made my parents cringe as well as proud at different times since my birth and a sense of empathy that I've gained watching various friends struggle with their love lives before finally meeting and coming together with the perfect person. I've witnessed first hand, the electrical spark between two people the second they laid eyes on each other and the grieving, heartbroken tears when one or both of them ran from the emotional vortex that high chemistry creates.
It's terrifying, it's beautiful and there are times I alternate between being grateful and envious that I never had to experience that high or low. My romantic life has always been pretty cut and dry and I'm okay with that but it would make for a pretty boring book. Besides that, I have enough love stories to draw from within my close circle of friends, without adding anything about my own life, which I'm a stickler for keeping private.
Anyway, back to the story...
While reading over the initial start of the relationship between the second Bimini's main characters, I was struck by how easy the communication in the relationship flowed. Too easily. They're from different worlds. She's a successful well known actress; he's a paramedic living on a tiny, obscure island that most people have no idea even exists. He also has a past that paints him as a little bit of a bad boy, while she's got a rebellious nature of her own with an independent streak a mile wide. He's overprotective; she's determined not to be protected. Even in the face of their differences, dialogue between the two flowed effortlessly and maybe that should have been a red flag that there needed to be more friction there. More spark, more chemistry and maybe

even a little venom.
Changing the ease of their relationship means a rewrite is going to be necessary and though this is not the five year project that the first Bimini was; it's still taken longer than I intended and the idea of backtracking is kinda frightening.
So, I admit, I'm a little lost in the direction I want to take because rewriting the relationship could lead to rewriting the entire story; which might not be such a bad idea either. I'm decisively indecisive about this so I've just been painting and sculpting instead. When in doubt... avoid. But it's getting to the point where my avoidance is getting on my own nerves so I'm going to have clamp down and just get to it.... maybe.

We'll see.