One Day Fiance

The main problem is with my two main characters, Amber and Ryker, and the stupid things that keep coming out of their mouths. Half the time they’re talking like robots, and the other half, I’m wondering why the fuck I should care about them. And if I don’t care about them, the readers damn sure won’t.

The sex scenes are causing me special trouble, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because I haven’t had actual sex with anything but my bedside buddy in almost a year. Seriously, even my memory of sex is getting hazy.

And that’s a problem. As an author, you’re supposed to either know or research the topic that you’re writing about. Quite frankly, watching Pornhub to get inspiration isn’t doing the damn trick any longer.

Besides, do people really do weird stuff like have sex on treadmills when the couch or floor is right there? I mean, rug burn’s a thing, but falling dick- or tits-first onto a whirling conveyor belt sounds way less sexy and is a good way to end up as a dirty meme on the internet.

“I think I need to have sex.”

Silence reigns around the table, all typing stopping instantly, and I look up to realize, to my total petrification, that I said that out loud.

“Shit.”

“Uh, that’s a hard limit. Even I don’t mix that into my sex scenes,” Jasmine says with a shiver. When I don’t laugh, she asks, “So, what’s up?”

I lean back, groaning. “I didn’t exactly mean to say that out loud. But what’s up is that I’m stuck! I need to find a willing subject to let me do some research with him.”

“Nope,” Daysha says as she points at me and Jasmine. “We’re sprinting. We can discuss Poppy’s coochie meow-meow’s lack of petting in six minutes.”

No one argues, simply sticking their heads back down. Daysha’s just that sort of super-focused person . . . but I’m left tapping my keyboard aimlessly. This is the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced! I can’t even write a decent scene to get my own juices flowing.

I know that beyond my lack of sex, the deeper reason I can’t write is that I’ve heaped so much pressure on myself by taking that advance contract from Bluebird. I’ve got to deliver a knockout book because my entire career is riding on it.

Between the stress and my lack of bathing, I’ve broken out in hives several times over the past week, and my sleep cycle’s ten kinds of fucked up. Suddenly, just to twist the thumbscrews a bit more, my mind comes up with another fresh worry. What if I go to this writer’s luncheon with my idol and a bunch of other authors, and they laugh me out of the place?

“Time,” Daysha calls, interrupting my self-induced stress dialogue. “Now, back to what’s really important, Poppy’s lack of cooter-loving friends.”

“Well, here’s the problem,” I tell them, turning my laptop around, showing them the past few pages of drivel I’ve written since I last deleted everything. “I’m struggling.”

Becca squints and flops back in her chair when she realizes the scene I’m on. “Oh, my God, PULEAAASE tell me you’re not STILL stuck on them boinking?”

Jasmine grunts and runs her hands into her blonde curls in exasperation with me. “I’ve written a space battle, a time warp, and a G-type star literally making our heroine explode in orgasm in the time you’ve been pecking at your keyboard!”

“Easy for you to say!” I growl, suddenly defensive. “You don’t have a six-figure contract riding on your story being good enough for a possible Netflix option, an agent reminding you at every turn that expectations are going to be astronomically high for revenue, fans emailing you to tell you how they want the story to go, and characters that sound like robots saying shit like ‘put your big dick inside me so I can feel you breed me, baby.’”

Jasmine rolls her eyes skyward. “Yes, yes, remind us how we’re all peons and you’re the chosen one with a big fat paycheck on the way.”

“I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry—”

Jasmine grins and boops her nose, adjusting her glasses that turn her from sex bomb back into girl next door cute when she wants. “Girl, I’m teasing, but please tell me you’re kidding about that dialogue, right? That’s bad, Poppy.”

Aleria clears her throat pointedly. “I could make it work,” she offers with a shrug, “in the right situation. A succubus, maybe? But only constructive criticism, Jasmine. We all agreed.”

Jasmine tilts her head as if to say ‘did you hear what she wrote? Someone’s gotta tell her.’ I get it, but right now, I’ll take any help—constructive or not. “What do you suggest, Aleria?”

“Well, you know I have a focus candle that could probably help you find an anchor in the characters,” she says, turning to the large satchel she always carries with her. “Some sage and hemp could—”