This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. John Feldman will be awarding a $50 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
My writing space doesn’t match with my writing style.
I’m no Stephen King or Dean Koontz. My novels don’t typically include any supernatural or ghostlike elements. But they’re no sunshine and rainbows. Let’s just say Nicholas Sparks and I probably wouldn’t see eye-to-eye if trying to collaborate.
When someone thinks of dark writing, they envision a writer hunched over in a chair in a wooden cabin somewhere, night swallowing any light in the room. And for the most part, they’re right. For a lot of writers, your surroundings can deeply influence your mood, and therefore your writing.
So for me, moving to the Florida beaches with palm trees and sunshine just outside my “office” window might not have been the smartest of moves.
One day I’ll have a nice big office, but for now I’ll stick to this small corner in my house. The view from my chair looks out into the yard where my pool and palm trees lie, and my family usually hangs out, listening to the Moana soundtrack while swimming or running around with the dog. The view itself makes it difficult enough to stay indoors, but the sight of my smiling kids makes it even harder.
What’s the motivator, you ask? Why not just get up and go hang out in the yard and work on your writing later?
Well, it’s tough not to. But I’m able to keep going by telling myself that each word I write now puts me one word closer to becoming a bestselling author. And if I can reach that milestone before my kids get too old, I can spend more time with them when they need me. I don’t want to be a struggling writer when they’re teenagers, and they’re curious about what they want to do in life. I don’t want them to look at my writing and think anything negative, like It just isn’t meant to be, or Maybe he isn’t good enough. I want them to see a success story. I want them to know that they can be anything they want to be if they want it bad enough and if they put in the effort. And Daddy can be the prime example of hard work paying off.
Sorry. Sort of went off the rails there.
I won’t complain about what I have right now, because I have this amazing view to look out into every morning. But I’ll eventually want more. Don’t we all?
Enjoy an Excerpt: A minivan pulls in and up to the gas pump behind Herb. Three young children run out and into the store, their father following close behind, yelling for them to slow down.
Herb remains leaning against his car, right hand pinched under his left armpit and his left hand pushing the cigarette into his face—a minding-my-own-business look. He holds this pose until he senses a stationary figure out of the corner of his eye: the mom.
Discreetly he looks over, then indiscreetly, and that’s when he sees the woman’s squinting and curious eyes on him. He drops the freshly-lit cigarette into the gravel and steps on the cherry, twisting his foot over top so not to blow up the ground he stands on.
He lowers his head and pulls down the brim of his faded gray baseball hat to the top of his sunglasses. He holds the gas pump as the fluid pours past his hand and into the hunk of metal.
Look away or I’ll fucking kill you.
He can feel her still looking over at him and the gas cannot pump fast enough. He’s made it two states away and he’ll be damned if this one woman is the end of him. He’ll kill her right here if he has to. Right here in this parking lot. Let her nosey ass get a little closer and then slit her throat. Dump some gasoline on her smug body and watch her squirm until the life drains out of her. That’ll teach her to look over here.
She starts to walk toward him.
It’s not full yet, the tank, but he’s not taking any chances. He removes the nozzle, replaces the gas cap and heads for his car door.
Don’t do it, Lady, he thinks as he yanks back on the door handle. But she does it.
“Excuse me,” she says.
Herb stops, shuts his eyes. Breathe. He looks at her and smiles, but receives no smile in return. Instead he gets the look of curiosity, only magnified. She is within mere feet of him now and those squinted eyes show crow’s feet attached. Her mouth is open, lower jaw just hanging there lazily as she thinks.
“Are you…?” she begins, but then stops. And right at that very moment, Herb can feel the cold steel of the switchblade in his pocket. Hey, it’s saying to him. Come and get me.
About the Author:
Buy the book at Amazon.
a Rafflecopter giveaway