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Are we talking writing space as in where I write, or writing space as in the inside of my head? Those are vastly different locations, but now that I think about it, they’re really not so dissimilar.
My physical writing space is a laptop on a foldable table in the family room between the television and the fireplace. It’s not very conducive to writing (especially with a husband and three kids), but I’ve learned how to tune out the extraneous noise (and if I can’t I just put on my headphones). There was a time long ago when I wrote at my desk in my bedroom upstairs, but more often than not I was forced to leave my hideaway to tend to my family. Therefore, moving my writing space to the family room was just better logistically. If all goes as planned I’ll have an office in my next house (and not my next life) that I can use in relative privacy and seclusion. Now that my kids are older I suppose I could return to my upstairs retreat, but I’ve become accustomed to the foldable table, my couch, and the almost constant cacophony of my life.
Inside my head it’s far noisier, with characters’ voices and settings demanded to be brought to life (yes, even the scenery speaks to me ). I tend to have brilliant Technicolor dreams, and remembered shards of those dreams often become the people and places I fictionalize. Thankfully, I have a passion for grammar and I can type 80+ wpm, so getting the thoughts from inside my mental writing space to my physical writing space is relatively easy, although I’ll admit my brain sometimes goes faster than my fingers. And, my brain often refuses to shut off even when it is exhausted. Characters keep me up more nights than not working out their dialogue, placement, plot, and storyline. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps noise is part of what makes it work. If I had the quiet, private office in which to write, and a quiet, serene mind at bedtime, would I still write the same? Only time will tell, and for now I’ll do and use what works.
About the Author:
Leslie is a war-veteran who served with the U.S. Navy during the Gulf War, and she was among the first groups of women to work the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. During her five years of service she was stationed at NAS Miramar (yes, Miramar used to belong to the NAVY) and was an F-14 Tomcat mechanic. While in San Diego she spent time on the carriers USS Independence, USS Ranger, USS Lincoln, and the USS Nimitz. The final two years of her enlistment were spent on Guam and her squadron frequently deployed to Japan and the Middle East.
She learned everything she knows about firearms and tactics from her police officer husband, who is a weapons expert and firearms instructor for one of the most highly-respected law-enforcement agencies in the world (and one he wishes her NOT to disclose). He is her biggest supporter and her unpaid consultant on everything law-enforcement and weapons related. She has three boys, the oldest of whom will soon be wearing the uniform of a United States Marine (SEMPER FI!). She spends her off-time (kidding...WHAT off-time?) reading, taking pictures, and sending lead down range (that's shooting, for those who are unfamiliar). One of her favorite scents is the smell of gunpowder in the morning....
Jack Vaughn is sure his life is over as he tumbles down the wooded hillside onto the deserted two-lane stretch of asphalt. Years of work ended with a single gunshot. Yet, it’s not over. A good Samaritan stops to help him, despite the danger he poses to her.
Laine Wheeler knows better than to stop for strangers on the rural Montana highway near her home, but her conscience won’t allow her to leave an injured man behind. What she doesn’t know is the man is an undercover ATF agent tasked with infiltrating a domestic terrorist group. His cover has been blown and helping him will put her life in danger.
Though there is an instant attraction, Jack knows that beginning a romantic relationship with Laine would be both unfair and unwise. Yet the farther they run, the harder it gets to ignore the feelings that are surging between them.