I am a creature of habit.

And I'm not. 😁

My neurodivergent self likes to have certain things I know I can trust daily. I wake. Change clothes. Cereal. Meds. Ice water. Work.

Tuesday-laundry

Wednesday-groceries

Every other week is therapy. I do love to chat.

Once a month or thereabouts, my wonderful stylist gives me rose gold hair. I love you, Penny! 💗

But writing?

Writing is everything wonderful and different.

I love romance. Romance lives in my soul. While I'm late to it in real life, I'm the precocious young girl reading Harlequin when it was all "clean." But you can bet your ass when Silhouette Desire came along, I was ass-deep in those pages. 😌

I was the high school girl sending off for honeymoon information for the Poconos because in my little romantic heart, THAT was the place to go after marriage. At this point, I hadn't even dated anyone. But the brochures fed the part of me that dreamed of romance. And I'm a big dreamer. Anyone will tell you. 😍

I thought I could simply write a billionaire romance or two and then shift gears. I have four planned out. BUT...I don't want to. 😮

What the what?

Yeah. That's right. Catch that. I simply don't want to. Not where my interests lie. 

Because the whispers started about a month ago. And I always listen to the whispers. 

Not a romance. Not hardly. Another fantasy. Young woman. Fighting. Experiments. Rage. Murder. Oh. And redemption. 

I started her story.

Nearly 12,000 words right now. I feel her beating on the walls, aching to tell the rest. 

I listen.

There are no hugs and kisses. No sweet words of encouragement.

Only her. Only pain. Only...her story.

You see, I've found I have a soft spot for the damaged female. The cast-off. The counted out. The used. 

She's found her champion. 

I've found my inspiration.

Aren't we both...fortunate?

Always writing*