I've suspected it in the past, but now the evidence is unavoidable. I write as a means to escape. This holiday was supposed to be spent with my family, entertaining children, doing laundry, feeding the fireplace, wrapping presents. Instead, I wrote a novel I wasn't supposed to start until next week, when the holiday was over and the kids were back at school.
There's a multitude of reasons that happened. No, I don't hate my family. In fact, I love them dearly. I was procrastinating the parts of the holiday I don't like. Nope. Not gonna get specific there, just suffice it to say that I spent more time writing than I did anything else. Although I did manage to make Christmas happen, although I was not calm, cool, nor collected about the whole thing.
But I banged out the rough draft to Wrecked, which I may changed the name of...It's a shame, because I really like it, but there's about fifty other titles on Amazon with the same name. I may go for Wrecking Fall, play on Miley Cirus? Maybe not, I really don't care for Miley...
Next on my agenda: Falling for Hope. Since I just sent Gambling on Love to my editor, I've got to get Hope ready next. And due to a couple of great reviews, I've got a new marketing platform for my books...Busy days ahead...Onward and upward!