The Need for Pressure

The WIP.

The acronym alone has a suitable crack of onomatopoeia about it. It should conjure up feelings of relaxed, lengthy days of writing, free to finish it as and when …

But no, it creates in me the tension of some Sisyphean task. Just thinking about it alone makes me shudder.

I need deadlines. I’m great with deadlines. Recently I was asked to produce at short notice a story of about 15000 words. I was told they needed it within a couple of weeks. That was all it took. I had it for them by the end of the weekend.

But I have … oooh … four WIPs floating around my hard drive, just waiting. I have them all plotted out. I know exactly where I’m taking them, but they sit there daring me to finish them. Maybe it’s the fact that there are too many of them. Decisions, decisions.

If someone said to me, I want that by this date, that would be great. I’d do it. Why can’t I tell myself that?

My new month’s resolution (I sort of missed the whole New Year thing) is to pick a WIP, give myself a deadline, and finish it. It’s not like they’re in the early stages. They’re all over halfway there. And some of them are pretty good. I like them. Maybe that’s it. I’m scared to let them go.

I finished the trilogy in good time because I had someone telling me they wanted it and when they wanted it. So that’s why I have a completed trilogy. Suited to You. One, two, three, all ready to go.

9781783751266_FC         9781783751167_FC          Sated

Just click on the covers for UK links.

Amazon US links here: Spontaneous, Exposed, Sated.

Here’s a little snippet of something produced to a deadline. This, from Sated. Tara’s just been to a football match. She gets to meet the captain and the team afterwards. And then some.

‘This is Tara.’

‘I thought it must be. Hi, Tara, it’s really, really good to meet you.’

He took my hand in an impressive grip and fixed me with his deep brown eyes. His mouth curled into a smirk. There was something about the way he said “really, really”, as if he was rolling a toffee round his mouth, that made me cream. I may have whimpered. Under the circumstances, it was forgivable.

I think I slurred something like, ‘Ha ha ha! Yah, great to meet you and that goal – you were, like, wow! Amazing! Wasn’t it great the way it went into the net like that just from you, like, kicking it – so amazingly awesome! I was, like, wow ha ha!’

He smiled politely and diverted his attention from my brainless gushing bullshit by staring at my boobs instead. Fair enough. They were on prominent display after all, and together formed a downy nest of two plump pillows just demanding a look.

‘It’s really good you can come,’ he added. I wondered slightly at his choice of tense. Can come rather than could come? Was that deliberate?

I soon had my answer. The towel surrendered to the inevitable.

Right before my eyes, while he still held my handshake, it slid down to land in a defeated puddle at his feet. And in its place I was staring at the most stunning example of the male sexual organ.

‘Whoops,’ crooned the captain with a smirk.

Patrick immediately took hold of my dress – a slight little shift which clung to me – and pulled it off. My bra was unhooked and my thong discarded. I was left in only my heels. I was vaguely aware of a hand in the small of my back – Patrick’s. He gave me the slightest nudge forward – off you go, Tara. So off I went.

Now … off to WIP I go!


The Need for Pressure

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