Yesterday I finished the short story I've been writing through January -- yes, it took me nearly a whole month to get 10,000 words on the page. The characters became incredibly real to me and then when their emotions got tangled, I had to slow down and find a credible path through to a happy ending. Sometimes writing feels like walking through a swamp, moving carefully, testing each step and occasionally feeling solid ground tremble.


Still, I think "No Rescue" is pretty good. The hero is a water police sergeant in Sydney, and he was an absolute joy to write. The heroine (I won't give away her backstory yet) was tricky to balance her vulnerability and strength. I hope the story worked. It's now with my crit partner and I'm at the "Um, nothing?" stage -- by which I mean if someone was to ask me what I'm working on, I'd say "Um, nothing?"


Because of course I am working. I'm plotting out the next story and thinking about a longer length book -- should I write a romantic suspense novel? -- and contemplating the never-ending problem of social media and promo (ugh). But this is the point between books where I'm not actually sitting at a computer typing, and it feels weird.