Why fear throws spitballs and we must hit them out of the ballpark.
I loved, hated, cried, pouted like a denied toddler writing Bound to the Bounty Hunter. I love the story thanks to my awesome editor Lewis. He never complained when I’d email him with the subject line – “But wait. What if…” He was patient and kind when I should have been hanging out in the naughty corner, because we’d hash out ideas and then I’d do what I always do.
Typical conversation with myself.
Good self: I need to finish that scene today.
Bad self: I really need to clean the oven.
No one wants to clean an oven. There are possible stalagmites in my oven and I don’t care.
Good self: Starting to shake. Deadline is looming.
Bad self: Yeah, but, I think the spare room needs painting. Have I checked my email account and read the fine print on the Groupon I’ll never buy? Have I read every newspaper article I have no interest in? Have I zoomed around Facebook? Have I looked at a recipe for an elaborate dish I’ll never make? Check to all the above.
I know the reason. It lurks at the back of my head, smug and smarmy.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of failure.
Fear of fear.
This is the first time I think I truly found my voice, and I so wanted to write Sophie and Harlan, but it is different from what I’ve written before. I loved that I got to write about girlfriends sitting around eating prunes wrapped in bacon, drinking margaritas and critiquing bad porn – poor old Mega Tron’s not so mega Tron.
I let my many inhibitions go and wrote a story that I wanted, no, had to write, but what if only Aunt Susan buys it? I’ve pondered this possibility. Sweated over it. Worried like you fret that your child won’t make friends at a new school and will spend his day picking up trash because he doesn’t want to sit on his own. I had that child after we moved countries. I had to leave the room and cry in the bathroom so he wouldn’t know. He did make friends. (Lucky that Freud doesn’t charge by the hour of I’d be handing him virtual hundred dollar bills.)
If only Aunt Susan buys Bound to the Bounty Hunter, I’m okay with it.
I’m setting a new rule. Fear is not going to win. She needs to go and hang out with doom and gloom kicking dirt in the naughty corner.
I know it’s mind over matter, and quite frankly I have a lot of matter, but the mind is a tricky thing. Mine tells me I suck. The words I’m getting down blow. That cake I just made? Seagulls wouldn’t touch it.
It’s hard letting go of the fear and the procrastination, but that’s the goal with the rest of the books in the series and for life in general. After I clean the oven of course.
About the book:
Harlan Franco, Colorado’s busiest bounty hunter and security expert, lives by his own rules: be in control, be detached, and never mix business with pleasure. These rules are tested when the woman he’s being paid to secretly guard is none other than the sexy, unpredictable, pain in the butt, Sophie Callaghan––a woman determined to stay away from him. If Sophie finds out he’s in her life on an assignment, he’ll never get the info he needs. But those lips, those curves, that attitude… If he could only have her for one night where she’d play by his rules.
Freedom-loving private investigator Sophie Callaghan is on a mission. The daughter of a con-artist is not going to be used by a man again. What she doesn’t need is hot, broody, and controlling Harlan barging into her life. Her brain may say no, but her body craves this bad boy.
After a night where both live out their darkest desires, Sophie tries to fight the explosive chemistry between them. But the ties that bind her heart to this bounty hunter are tight and tangled.
Find it online:
Goodreads | Amazon | B&N | iTunes | Kobo
About the author:
I love Princess Bride, Young and the Restless, Days of our Lives—the drama is deliciously addictive. Big Bang Theory but will take Wolowitz over Cooper. Star Trek not Star Wars. Undercover Boss, Secret Millionaire—any story that shows the little guy making it. I follow the Buffalo Bills like a religion. I am spellbound by showjumping and equestrian eventing. I love curling up and reading all books—no genre is off-topic. I like ironing, hate peas, love donkeys. I play a killer game of Scrabble, but usually lose. I will often be heading towards the fridge for another Diet Coke. I eat nothing with legs and believe wine goes with everything, oh and I’m an expert at finding new and inventive ways to avoid exercise.
I live in the sparkly beachside suburb of Redondo Beach in California with my fake Gordon Ramsay and two boys who speak in mystifying grunts.