I usually write women's fiction with mystery elements. I've just finished my first suspense novel. And now I need a bit of a break. I had to get out of the head of a serial killer. Why not write a romance? I mean, how hard can it be?
So, there I was, happily writing away. Ahead of schedule, the words in my kinda hot romance flowed and flowed. The male lead talked and talked and almost didn't notice the female lead. I tried to get him to shut up, but he acted like he'd been vaccinated with an old phonograph needle. Until a moment where he actually noticed the female lead. They can't get together because both wear wedding rings, and no publisher or agent wants a romance where infidelity was key to the sex.
How to get around this? I puzzled and puzzled before I took an overnight road trip. Even with a book in the CD player, my mind focused on the road and the problem in my manuscript. How do I get these to apparently married people to fall in love and in bed without offending the moral readers out there? Hours rolled by. Miles fell behind. No solution in sight.
Well, turns out writing romance is harder than I thought, but I'm having a (bodice) ripping good time. These leads have to get to bed. They just have to. They deserve a HEA ending. I hope I'm up to writing the ending so that it doesn't offend, excites the reader and stays true to the romance genre.
I want to thank that bug. The splat cleared the mess out of my head and let me see the plot lines clearly. I love windshield time. What I don't like is having to clean the splattered bug off the glass. It's become epoxy-hard. Maybe I'll wait until the first snow and scrape it off.
That's all, folks. A silly story about how I found inspiration in a dead bug.