I hate summer. Truly hate it. Hate it with a passion. My idea of heaven is 72 degrees year round. Today the high in Ohio is supposed to hit 95.
Someone shoot me. Of course, my air conditioning works well and I have no reason to leave the house. I have groceries, the kitten is weaned, there's a bottle of wine already chilling for the mscelina happy hour at 4 p.m.--I should be happy, right?
Deadline tomorrow for the erotica sequel. Yep, that would be heat as well. It's much harder to write hot sex scenes because you have to. ( A prostitution analogy comes to mind here, but I'll bypass it in favor of continuing my rant.) After all, sex is sex, right? It doesn't have to be ....creative.
I wish. Your normal, run-of-the-mill everyday sex isn't hot enough for the fatnasy erotica market. It has to be....more out of the box (oops! bad analogy!) .... er.... over the top (not much better) ...er... inclined to drive the point home (damnit!) .... er .... that this is a fantasy and therefore not the same kind of sex you get from someone you pick up in a bar unless you're really, really lucky. And, of course, since mine is based on greco-Roman mythology (and believe me the myths remain intact and true to their sources) I'm dealing with gods. Think about it: how many different ways can an immortal come up with to enhance the sexual act? Way too many, evidently.
On a cooler note, I have cranked out 11k already today. If I'm not interrupted, I might be able to finish this thing and get it out.
On another hot note, I have an auction this week. That means hours of (you guessed it) standing in the heat and increasing my rare book inventory. Oh well! Who knows? Maybe I'll find a first edition of Tom Sawyer signed by Mark Twain so that I can retire to Alaska and finish up my books.