Are y’all ready? Do you have 10K words in you? Do you need to do some hard and heavy writing over the weekend? This is the challenge for you!
Beginning at 7pm on Thursday night (tonight) and ending at 10pm on Sunday night, the goal is 10,000 words. If you come in under that, it’s cool. Maybe it’s something to work up to. Maybe you’ll get it right out of the gate. You may write 10,000 words in a day. Whatever your ability and timetable, you have a whole weekend to get in as many words as you can.
Check in with the Linky below. Keep track of where you started with your word count and where you ended, then come back on Sunday night and leave a comment on this post about your progress.
So, let’s get writing! Feel free to grab the 10KWeekendsForWriters badge for your site or social media and be sure to use the #10KWeekendsForWriters hashtag so we can all check in over the next few days.
Okay, so maybe I don’t… But that’s because there’s a second pen name so many authors are hiding behind when they choose to write something racy, highly erotic, taboo, filthy, etc… Why?
To be fair, I’ve been putting serious thought for about a year into adding a new pen name. Either for all my paranormal stuff or for some dirty romance I want to write. Because the last thing authors want to do is alienate readers.
At the same time, authors don’t want to generally be pigeonholed or typecast or stifled.
The case for pen names having a finite shelf life? I’ve heard it. The case for if you write so many different things, Amazon doesn’t really know what to do with you and your ‘Also boughts’. I’ve heard it. The case of a new pen name may add life to the new genre you’re trying to write in as opposed to using your usual pen name. I’ve heard it too.
No, I don’t want to alienate you guys. I don’t want to lose any of you, but given the content of some of the stuff I’m writing to release later this year, I likely will. Because I’m doing it under Lissa Matthews. It’s possible it won’t sell. It’s possible it will damage the Lissa Matthews name/brand, whatever that means. It’s possible. All things are possible. But I’m going to do it anyway. If it starts having adverse effects, I’ll play around with some new pen names.
I guess what started this is… I’ve read a number of books the last year or so where the authors were New York Times Best Selling authors who liked writing taboo and dirty stories. Maybe they didn’t want anyone to know it was them? Maybe they’re big publishing house published and the didn’t want the publisher to know. Maybe they’re afraid of alienating readers if they don’t use a new name. I don’t know. I would ask if I knew what name they normally write under.
A friend of mine wrote a series outside her normal style and the books didn’t do well until she changed the name on them to something completely different than her usual pen name and they sold like hot cakes. I’ve watched several authors do this. Then, I’ve watched others write everything under one name and it work, whether they walk the taboo edges or the paranormal romance lines. The readers will lap it up.
I started in this business writing bad boys with tattoos and lots of sex. I had grand ideas. I was quickly tossed off the roof and I’ve been roaming around in the bushes ever since. Before I sent anything to a publisher, I used to publish erotica on a free story/pic site. I wrote exhibitionist erotica, taboo erotica, bdsm erotica, painful emotional erotica, and erotic. I was exploring my own depths and I got incredible feedback. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make the transition to the rules of publishing. I did, to a point. But to be honest, something has been missing for a long time. Fire. Passion. Pushing boundaries.
So, maybe you’ll like what I’m working on. Maybe you won’t. But, I won’t hide behind a mask. It’ll have my name. Lissa Matthews on the cover. It’ll be my own interpretation, my own vision of what I want to write. After all, that’s what indie publishing is all about, that’s what being a writer is all about.
Sneak peak at my upcoming BDSM novella that is part of The Club series…
I waited on him. It was my job. Or one of them. I owned the shop, both bookstore and café, so my jobs were numerous and unending. I could have let someone else, the only other someone else who was in the café working for me wait on him, but I didn’t want that. I wanted to wait on him. I wanted to serve him the cup of coffee, black with one ounce of heavy cream, no more and nothing less. I wanted to be the one who set it in front of him, who received his smile and nod of approval, his satisfied sigh. I wanted all that.
I wanted none of it. I didn’t want to need that feeling deep down in my soul that I’d pleased someone, him, only him. I didn’t want to feel anything again. Not for a man like him. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’d vowed it, sworn it, done everything but write it in blood. But he walked in three months ago and I knew. I fucking knew in my gut there was no turning back. Not when he looked at me like that. Not when the corners of his lips tilted up or the desire lit his eyes when he saw me.
I was lost and he found me when I didn’t want to be found. Not ever again.
“Will that be all?” I asked the question each time I brought him coffee. And each time, he gave me the same response.
“No. I would like you to sit with me.”
I was running out of ways to say no. Truth was, I had run out of ways to say no the very first day I met him. I knew the questions he would ask and he knew the answers I would give. “Thank you, Sir. I can’t.”
I quickly bit by tongue. All the words were the same with the exception of Sir. It slipped out, unwarranted and unwanted and completely perfect. I hadn’t used the term in years. I promised him… I sighed inwardly at the lie. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t use it ever again. Not with anyone.
He smiled over the rim of his coffee cup and it lit his eyes in a way that caused my thighs to squeeze together, my belly to roll with need, and my palms to sweat. I knew he wanted me, and I knew I wanted him, but this was more than simple lust and my saying of the word Sir, admitted it to both of us.
“Why do you always say that you want me to sit with you?” I had an inkling of an idea, but until he said it, it was just that, an idea. However, once he did, it would be real, as everything was when spoken aloud.
It was something I’d always known, deep down inside, but had never thought about until that January day five years ago. If they didn’t speak the word, it couldn’t have been real, so I avoided them, the people and the word, existing in denial as long as I could. It hadn’t been long enough when I emerged and let it sink in.
He was and I wanted to be.
But now, there’s a new, different him when I never expected there to be, when I never wanted there to be, and he’s here every day, sipping my coffee, and wanting me to sit with him.
“Because I want to know where you go when you get that far away look in your eyes. Because I like looking at you and seeing one of your rare smiles. Because I want you to ask my name. Because I want to know what happened to him.”
My heart lurched in my chest and my throat threatened to close off all air from my lungs. I grasped the edge of the table to keep myself from falling. He reached out but I stumbled back before he could touch me.
I loved my name on his lips, even as I hated him knowing my name at all. To hear it uttered with concern, as though he cared, nearly broke me. “H-how do you know about him?” I whispered the question around the thickness of my tongue and through my dry lips.
The Club. I closed my eyes and moaned softly. The words evoked so many powerful memories and desires. The room spun and my world tilted. I’d forced myself not to think about The Club, not to remember its existence. For years, I drove out of my way so I wouldn’t be anywhere near it, so I wouldn’t be tempted.
“They had no right.”
“They didn’t. I saw the pictures on the wall. I did ask, once. I was told you were no longer owned, but for any more answers than that, I would need to ask you. I was also told I likely wouldn’t get very far.”
“But that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m here because I saw a woman in some pictures that I couldn’t get out of my head. I’m here because it was insane for me to want a woman I didn’t know. I’m here because I wanted to see you in person, to see if my reactions would be the same, to see if I would still be enchanted with more than a picture on a wall.”
He was too young to use words like enchanted. I wanted so badly to smile, to enjoy the fluttering going on inside my body at his admission to wanting me, whether he knew me or not. I wanted to revel in the very real fact that I wasn’t dead inside.
But I couldn’t. That would be a betrayal and I couldn’t do it. Saying Sir had been bad enough. Giving in to the pleasure of being wanted, even if I was the only one who knew, was another kind of betrayal altogether.
It’s been a good week. Sorta. I wake up every morning so, that’s something to be thankful for, yes? Yes.
I’ve blogged daily, which is something I’d set out to do. I’m keeping a planner. Two actually. One is yearly. And the other is quarterly. I loved the idea of quarterly planners, breaking my year up into smaller visual pieces and had to give it a try.
I joined in #fitreaders to do 5K or 10K each month, but really I do more than that and it’s a good thing. I do 5K or 10K several times a week. Or, I’m starting to do so. I’m not looking for weight loss (though my doctor would love it if I did.). I’m looking for better fitness on the inside.
I started a thing (that’s also still in infancy and full of need to be tweaked here and there) called #10KWeekendsForWriters. I want to write more and always do better when I have an end goal or a deadline looming. So, I thought this would be a good thing, going back to when I first started writing. The first weekend of it ends tonight at 10pm and while I won’t make it to the 10K, I’ll have made a HUGE dent in the current book I’m writing and needing to finish like yesterday.
I accomplished some things. But still, not enough of what is necessary each week. I’m working on trying NOT to stress too much. To read more. To think and plan and figure out when I’m most productive as a writer. Ever since my son started back to public school in October of last year, I’ve been floundering on the writing front. I’m a night writer. (No. Jokes.) I always have been really. Yes, I can write during the day sometimes, but it’s never consistent. I write at night after everyone goes to bed or goes to their rooms, when the dishes are done and the house is quiet. There are minimal distractions and minimal noise I can make. It’s always been perfect.
I kind of got into the habit of creativity at night when I was in college. The guy I had the biggest crush on, who had a crush on me but would never admit it, would show up at my house at 11pm. We’d talk while he was waiting for a practice room at the university to come available. He was a French horn player and he’d practice from midnight to three or four in the morning. He said it was when he felt most alive, most in tune with the music. I understood that perfectly. I sometimes did the same thing.
Night has always been my friend and while we home schooled, I could work at whatever hours I wanted. But with public school hours, I can’t. I’m up at 5:30am and in bed by 11. The hours I’m used to writing, I’m now using for sleep and my mind, my creative mind, hasn’t figured out how to make the transition. I sit sometimes and simply stare at the screen because the words are just not there. But at 2am I’ll wake up and the words are ready to pour through and I’m just so dead tired, I’ve created at night for so many years. I’m not sure how to switch. I’m even sure I can.
This has been a struggle. We’ll see what I come up with and how I’m able to adjust. I don’t have a choice but to adjust, I just have to figure out how and in what ways.
And, that’s about where I am right now. I have more writing to do, some errands to do, a book to finish reading, and more coffee to brew… Y’all have a great Sunday.