unfolding my napkin and draping it over my lap. “So, what sort of delicacy is
on the menu this evening?”
I leave those sort of things to the kitchen.” Lilith waved a hand absently,
brushing the question aside as if it was no more than a fly. “It’s time for you
to pay your debt.”
smile was the sort usually reserved for cute animals and slow adults. “Did you
really think a simple dinner would be all the repayment I required?”
I was foolish enough to hope.” Sighing, I pulled a cigar from my coat pocket
and examined the tip. “How, then, am I supposed to repay you?”
correct?” Her smile grew when I nodded. “Wonderful. Three stories, then.”
pardon?” I winced, shaking my head as she laughed. “Remind me to limit my time
around Joanne. I’m picking up too many of her verbal ticks for my liking.”
think of this as more of a series of lectures on the right and wrong way to
conduct relationships.” She propped her elbows on the table, steepling her
fingers as she stared at me with the sort of fascination I’d seen on cats in
the instant before they pounced. “After all, you have so much advice to offer.
It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
life is my own.” I set the cigar down, hating the stiffness in my voice and yet
unable to do anything to correct it. “You’ve known me long enough to know
asking for a rundown of every person you’ve fucked in the last few millennia.”
Her smile widened, the edges turning cruel. “Besides, even if I did, I doubt
you could provide one.”
clenched my fist in my lap. “I remember them all.”
tapped her fingers on her lower lip. “Then tell me a story.”
About the Author:
A Typical Week
A lot of people like to think a writer’s life is, for lack of a better word, awesome. I mean, you get to spend the day playing with your imaginary friends, researching cool and interesting things, and telling fantastic stories.
However, there is a reason a famous writer compared the act of writing to opening your veins and letting the blood spill out.
Four days a week, I wake up at around six thirty in the morning. After stumbling around for a bit, I manage to make myself presentable enough to go out in public and not scare small children. I settle in for my morning commute, which takes all of three minutes—five when there’s traffic. And then I’m at my office, i.e., a local coffee shop.
Coffee shops are interesting first thing in the morning. They’re just quiet enough to allow for concentration but they also have enough background noise to keep your mind from wandering completely. There’s a great mix of people who are stumbling in, desperate for coffee, and those who have clearly already had more than their fair share and are now ready to conquer the world. I have a great deal of sympathy for those in the first group because despite the fact I can wake up early and at almost any time, I am by no means happy about it.
After a quick infusion of caffeine and a bagel—one of my few weaknesses—I settle in for a few hours of writing. This generally involves periods of typing, periods of staring out the window at the lake, and periods of reading news and taking quizzes on my phone. Sometimes if I’m in the zone I can write for two or three hours straight but I usually only have the concentration for about sixty minutes at a time. Breaking between major scenes or chapters allows time for things to process and for the characters to let me know which way things need to go.
With the largest portion of my daily writing out of the day, I head back to my house, i.e., my other office, where I spend a few hours writings posts such as this one, looking for stock photos for covers, brainstorming, and doing a few dozen of the hundreds of little things which keep me occupied. Then it’s time for lunch and a quick nap.
And then, at least two days of the week, it’s time for the day job.
The two days I don’t get sell my soul to the service industry I continue writing off and on throughout the evening. I may work on some crochet projects, usually blankets or scarves, and watch some Netflix but nothing too exciting.
The other three days operate are essentially flipped—I work at the day job in the actual day and try and find the energy to crank out words at night. The only day I don’t write is Sunday, mostly because by that point I’m exhausted and, well, it would interfere with my drinking.
And then come Monday it starts all over again—but I wouldn’t change a thing.
Well, as far as the writing goes.