Why? I don't know. I hope all writers feel this way from time to time because I do. I have days where I read my work and love it, then the next day think its the worst thing I've ever read. I hate when I get this way. Is there a cure for this doubt or insecurities? Blah, blah, blah!
Anyway, so writing?? Nope on anything new. I spend the day yesterday cleaning my house. I have about two chapters to finish Inventing the Abbotts, then on to the second book in my Aztec series, Mauvelous... the third will be titled Caddy-Did. What do you think she did? I bet you can guess.
That's what I'm up to, at least I hope so. RWW is having a scene challenge so hopefully this will push me in the right direction to getter done.
Remember, Saving Grace is available for your buying pleasure. Cord and Grace would love for you to read about their misadventures.
This is the very beginning of the book.
Cord Rawlings lifted the bottle of Jack Daniel’s to his lips and drained the last drops. He wouldn’t say he was drunk, just numb. He’d spent all evening in Rockford, Illinois, holed up in a room at a roadside motel, drinking, and still felt no better than he had before he’d opened the bottle.
Would the painful memories ever fade -- as the face of his partner, Vincent Diaglo, had?
He forced himself to swallow past the burning in his throat and slammed his fist into the lumpy mattress.
Contempt for himself consumed him.
Vince had died because of him. He should have been in the car that exploded, not his partner. Now all Cord saw when he thought about his friend was his charred remains -- not the strong, dedicated cop he’d been.
Inside, Cord was dead, too. Probably wouldn’t fear dying because he’d been dead inside for a long time now.
Maybe he should just end it all. Right here, right now.
He shook his head. That would be taking the coward’s way out. No way could he do that.
He tossed the empty bottle in the air. It landed on the carpet with a dull thud.
Vincent would have been disgusted with what he’d become, and that bothered him more than anything. Vince and his wife had been like family to him.
God, he could still see Grace’s pale, tear-streaked face at the funeral as the graveside attendants lowered the shiny silver casket into the ground, her hands white-knuckling the American flag that had draped it moments earlier.
He hadn’t been able to face her that day. Guilt had eaten at him with a vengeance. So he’d watched from a distance, afraid she’d blame him for not being there to save her husband.
The morning of the funeral, he’d pictured her misty-green eyes filled with loathing, eyes that had haunted him from the moment he’d met her, and known facing her would be impossible. Burying his partner and losing her respect, all in the same day. No, he couldn’t have dealt with that. He’d chosen not to confront her.
Instead, he’d run away and buried himself in a bottle.
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