[Please scroll down past the asterisks if you wish to skip ahead to my exercising update!]
I’ve been writing my series still, and I’m really enjoying it. I know that the traditional way to write a novel is to create conflict, but I prefer to create wish fulfillment. I like to write in a way that creates a magical atmosphere. Like, that would be my fantasy world.
So instead of conflict, I usually rely upon plot. Stuff does happen in my novels, despite the fact that everyone’s getting along and no one’s feelings are hurt. Plot is interesting, just like it is in real life, or we’d never read each other’s blogs.
I just hate conflict. I mean, it’s not that I’m conflict-avoidant. (Seriously, everyone, quit laughing.) (Okay, so I’m a bit confrontational.) But I don’t enjoy reading about conflict. And whenever something bad happens in a book, and it’s like, oh no, there’s no solution to this! The characters are never going to fix this! There’s no escape! It makes me feel tense and unhappy. So I write what I’d want to read: pure fantasy fulfillment. So I’ve been on Cloud 9 for a while now, just writing my new series.
I wish I could promote it. I’m considering doing a Goodreads Kindle giveaway of volume 1, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be successful, and I also can’t easily afford the $119. That’s why I started the crowdfunding, and that’s gotten me diddly squat. But I’m still enjoying myself.
Bertie awoke thanks to a fancy lamp that brightened gradually in imitation of a sunrise, its long bulb shining past black fabric that formed a rectangle around a thin wooden frame. Down here in the lower levels of Naughty Eaves, there was no natural light to be had, apparently.
Bertie was able to see for a fact that just about all of Chester’s furnishings were solid black. Chester lay sound asleep next to her, snoring lightly.
Bertie watched Chester for a moment and then looked all around the room, taking in the black upholstery, black walls, and black knickknacks. Even his bookends were made of black marble.
Her gaze alighted upon a file cabinet. It stood out with its beige drawers and chrome handles. Moving with as much stealth as possible, she slid off the bed in her underwear and bra, and landed on plush black carpeting. She tiptoed across the room and pulled open the file cabinet. It made a soft whooshing sound of air being released. Anxious, Bertie turned to check on Chester. He was still asleep. Good. She gently tugged the top drawer farther open.
What she found scandalized her. Every paper-thin file included a different woman and some corresponding information about her: name, age, general location, and level of naughtiness. There were also headshots, as if Chester was running a modeling agency. None of the photos were indecent, though, or anything like that. The files were arranged alphabetically by first name.
Wait. Level of naughtiness? Huh. Bertie noted a scale drawn as a semicircle with an arrow pointing anywhere from leftward (mildly naughty) to rightward (in need of stern disciplinary attention). Dying from morbid curiosity, Bertie dug into the B section to find her own file. Here it was! What would she find out about—
“What are you doing?”
Bertie froze. Oops. She was so ashamed that she couldn’t even turn around to face him. “N-nothing,” she stammered. She shoved the file back into the cabinet and pushed the drawer closed as if that would undo her cowardly actions. “I-I-I just wanted to see how naughty I am.”
“Mm-hmm. Fortunately for you, the irony of that isn’t lost on me.”
Darn it all!
Yeah. Like I said, too much fun. I was wondering how I could get another “naughty” scene in there (if you catch my drift–and I think you do…), and my character rose to the occasion and solved the problem for me. Thank you, Bertie.
(It’s not like I have any control over what my characters do. They never listen to my dictates. I mean, if I were Chester Payne’s guest, I’d never violate his privacy.)
Anyway, please consider pre-ordering volume 1 here, especially if naughty fiction is your thing.
In other news, I overexerted myself on the treadmill earlier today. I was concerned about how high my pulse was (as displayed on the treadmill), so I did some research when I got home. Apparently, 220 minus your age is the highest your pulse should ever safely go, and for high-intensity aerobics, it should max out at 85% of that. So my highest safe pulse would be 177, maxing out at 150. Well, my pulse was at 174, and it might have gone higher, because that’s what it was when I glanced at the screen. I believe this explains why my dad was worried about me when I got home, even though I was in a perfectly fine mood. He thought I looked unhappy.
Demoralized, I doubled down on my out-of-shape issues by eating a pint of ice cream. Yeah… [Eyeroll.] It cured my headache, though. Do we need pain pills in a world with ice cream?
I only did my basic treadmill routine that I always do: ten minutes at a 15° incline at 2.5 to 3 mph. But it just killed me. It’s hard. I’m thinking of canceling my gym membership and focusing on using my home gym and riding my bike. It’s a good time of year for bike riding, and it’s good for my knee, too. But I’m upset that I’m in such poor shape in a cardiovascular sense. Oh well. My dad said everyone is. But still. It’s a bummer.
I hope everyone out there is having a great day!! 🙂