I have absolutely NO self control. I really should be much more ashamed to admit that, and yet, I’m not. Here I am owning up to it. I’m pretty proud of that. Not of having no control, but of owning up to the fact.
See, yesterday, I left Eclipse at work in order to force myself to write. I dove into my WIP headfirst, tackled a few scenes, and it felt like pulling teeth. Somehow, my hero ended up with the heroine on his tail dragging him along as he went to interrogate a big time mobster, meanwhile, she somehow manages to get him beaten up by said mobster’s goons. The improbable events in my book just seem to be getting larger and more ridiculously funny. Even I chuckled a few times while writing it. Didn’t write A LOT, but it did at least get easier as I went along. So that’s a plus. Today however, I’m feeling catatonic. I’m so exhausted I can hardly keep my eyes open. Even now. *So please forgive me if there are a bizzillion typos in this*.
Today, my self control suffered. I brought Eclipse home. It’s still sitting in the Barnes and Noble bag. It’s still staring at me, burning come hither looks that make me anxious. I keep staring at the bag, knowing that I shouldn’t. Not now, I tell it. Not yet. But the characters keep calling to me. Edward and Bella keep reminding me that they were in the middle of an argument, and that it’s rude to shut them up just as it’s getting good. Well, duh. I know this. But MY characters were in the middle of their own banter. My heroine was trying so hard to apologize for getting stubborn hero beaten up. Not that she didn’t enjoy it. *snickers* Sometimes, his smart mouth deserves a good pound. But I left them just as she was trying to make amends.
So here I am, torn between two COMPLETELY different worlds. One dark, sexy, emotionally honest world of vampires, werewolves and first loves. The other a weird, over the top, light hearted romantic comedy in the vein of Clue, circa 1950. Both are fun in their own way. Both have their appeal. Unfortunately, and this is really all my fault, I happen to be a terrible masochist. I live for dark and angsty. Even as I write the comedic scenes I cringe. I feel like I’m going against my very nature. Testing the limits of my muse by stretching her too thin. She glares at me constantly. I don’t think she likes me very much.
But I digress. In the end, I haven’t done a thing. I haven’t written, because I can’t bring myself to. But I haven’t opened the book either, because I’m afraid I’ll get sucked in and there goes the rest of the night.
What’s a girl to do when she just can’t say no? *sigh*
