Writer's Blog: How To (Not) Start a Story

Sometimes writing is hard. Honestly, a lot of times writing is hard. For me, at least. I like telling stories. Typing them up is no more than a necessary evil in order for me to share those stories.

The good news? Chapter Six 2.0 is almost finished, and Rosy is now approximately 1.7x sexier due to some edits I made this morning.

Anyway, tonight is one of those nights that I’m simply not wording very well. Which means my stories (noticeably, April’s Saucy Side with Grayson) have undergone a lot of false starts. My goal is still to finish Gray’s saucy side tonight, but . . .

You know what? Sometimes it’s easier to show than to tell. Especially when wording is hard because my brain is fried from recoding all of Rosy’s approval gain.

Thus, in the order that they were written, I present today’s many false starts of Grayson’s attempted sexy moments:

(My cloud backs up all the previous versions, so I just went back and fetched each starting attempt that I’d deleted.)

* * * *

“Don’t move.”

Grayson’s hand delves between your spread thighs.

It’s fine. Nothing scandalous. There’s no reason for his touch to make your breath quicken and your stomach to clench, no reason at all for your skin to prickle and for your—

“There,” Gray announces, a note of pride in his voice. “Got it.”

He holds up his fingertip, atop of which sits your fallen contact lens.

* * * *

The carriage is too small. It didn’t feel too small earlier. In fact, you’d have described the interior as spacious, even roomy, on your way to the ball.

But now, with Grayson’s Black arm pressed against your side? With his thigh a mere inch away, and his knee brushing against yours with every rhythmic jolt? The carriage is definitely too small.

Gray leans across you, and your eyes lock. Your tongue darts out, nervously licking your lower lip. This is it. The moment where Grayson’s mouth finally alight upon yours and—

He opens the door on your side. “We’ve arrived. Get out.”

* * * *

Grayson Black was a sexy beast.

Ugh.

* * * *

Usually, curses were only bestowed upon those who deserved them. Witches had standards, after all, and none were willing to risk the negative Yelp review that would surely come from turning someone decent into a frog. No, curses were reserved for the dregs of humanity, for abusive noblemen and corrupt merchants.

Someone like Grayson Black? He never should’ve been cursed. Nor would he have been, had he not tried to save another.

“Back hair isn’t sexy,” Grayson growled through his fangs at the frustrated author. “Save the Beauty and the Beast retelling for next month.”

“Gray can be Beauty,” Nick the Candlestick chimed in.

Ugh.

* * * *

Nestled between the bosom of two mountains, the town of Brisket was the perfect place for a honeymoon.

“Brisket is a type of food,” Gray reminded the author. “Not a town name.”

* * * *

Nestled in the bosom of two snowy-peaked mountains, the town of Purewater was the perfect place for a honeymoon. Not that you and Gray were on a honeymoon together, perish the thought. You’d actually have to be wedded to the blasted British cookie thief for that to be possible.

No, this was a work trip.

Gray grins at you from beneath his oversized straw hat--meant, you assume, to conceal his identity.

“Purewater is a pretty unoriginal name, isn’t it?” he comments. “It’s like the author ran out of ideas.”

“Screw you, Grayson,” said the author.

“Straw hats aren’t sexy,” said Button. “I doubt there will be any screwing involved.”