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Ideal Place.
If you could go anywhere in the world to write for a weekend, where would it be and why?
I think all writers dream of an escape where ideas flow through their heads like running water and every image comes out perfectly on the page. This place is like magic, quiet, deep, and the well runs nonstop.
I don’t know if this place exists, but I thought it would be fun to imagine a writer’s playground.
Every writer is unique and different. I have learned to write in sheer chaos, so perhaps in too much quiet, I will freeze! But, my ideal writing retreat for a weekend would involve the Tuscan fields of Italy. Green and brown rolling hills, the tang of citrusy lemon and salty olives in the trees that surround me and give me shade. In my dream my laptop never runs out of batteries as I write outside, and there are no bugs to pull me from my imaginary world. The air is earthy, and a glass of red wine is at my elbow. There is a quiet peace that permeates the soul, and I write nonstop for hours, only pausing to refill my glass, stretch my limbs, or nibble on a treat.
My breaks involve vast amounts of food, a conversation and laugh with the locals, and a long walk. Then I am back to writing.
I wasn’t able to write Catch Me in this type of environment, but perhaps the place in my imagination where I created these characters was good enough. Here is an excerpt:
Catch Me excerpt:
“Tara Denton?” His question was more of a command.
She had no spit left when she opened her mouth to answer, and managed only a squeak. “Yes.” “Good. I’m Rick Steele.” His green-gold eyes gentled as he pulled back a stool and took a seat. “Don’t you like your drink? I’d be happy to get you another.”
She looked down at her barely touched concoction and shook her head. “This is fine, thank you.” She took a large sip and swallowed, as if proving her point. The sweetness was a bit cloying on her tongue, but the vodka burned hot down her throat. Since she rarely drank, she fought a cough, determined to act cool. The slight curl of his lip told her she’d failed.
He signaled the waiter over and ordered a beer. She forced her gaze upward, away from the large fingers inches from her own. Fingers that looked talented. Her cheeks heated at the sudden image of his hands gripping her hips as he thrust inside of her. She took a deep breath and discreetly wiped her damp palms on her skirt. “Well, Mr. Steele—”
“Rick.” Another quirk of amusement curved his lip. “I think we should at least be on a first name basis, don’t you?”
His drawl reminded her of smoke, sex, and sweat. She folded and refolded the cocktail napkin so she didn’t pick her fingers and ruin her new manicure. “Oh, yes, of course. Well, I just wanted to let you know it will be perfectly acceptable if you’d like to cancel. I’m not sure if you saw my photo or read my requirements, but I understand if you decide to leave after our drinks.”
He took a long pull of his beer, then pushed away from the table and studied her with interest. “You don’t like me?”
She sputtered with embarrassment. “God, no! I mean, you seem fine. You’re attractive, and I’m sure you’re experienced. But this is new to me. I just don’t think I’m the type you expected for this, for a….”
“One-night stand?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She nodded again and cleared her throat. “Please don’t feel bad. I appreciate you meeting me.”
One brow shot up. “That’s quite polite of you. But unnecessary.” A wolfish grin transformed his face. A rush of sexual heat squeezed through her blood and settled between her thighs in an ache. “You see, I’m just counting the minutes until I get you into bed.”
Jennifer Probst’s Web Site: http://jenniferprobst.com/
