Carol woke up wanting it. Two weeks since the irresistible soaring of desire had driven her to seek her joy and satisfaction.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t accomplished anything these last two weeks. She had the butt glue bottle and the responsibility of it had worked. Glued to her desk chair for four hours a day, she had done work that excited her, but was not exactly what she wanted.

Her query letter would surely leave an editor wanting more. Writing the synopsis had been a long kiss, leaving her aroused with the desire, need, to do what she really wanted. Want kept running through her head fueling imagination of what was to come.

Then the daily hours passed critiquing several friends’ writings. Had she said the right things to encourage? Had she caught all the places that could be improved? Had she helped them reach their climaxes, their goals?

Even better were the hours spent in meetings with her friends. Long conversations about how to do it…. Adding the sensual warmth of murmurs, caresses, spices in the air. How to raise the emotional pitch until it burst into a climax. Carol’s mind often wandered.

Enough! Two weeks of foreplay! This morning her desk chair beckoned. It was her turn to join with her muse in the bed of the next chapter.

Her heroine was searching the Amazon jungle for her uncle (humid rotting plant smells, screes of birds and howls of monkeys, dark green closing in). A shaman from an uncontacted tribe captured her and tied her to a tree (his muscles, his gentle touches, his purpose). She must figure out what he wants, and how to give it to him. As he draws her into helping him a bond grows, a closeness that leads to life for both of them. Panting with the passion of her needs she escapes into the jungle to look for the help they both hope will lead to a joyous conclusion. Don’t forget the hook to lead into the next chapter.

Wow! Carol leaned back in her chair and ran her hands through her hair. That was it! Carol’s fist pumped the air. Yes!

Coming down from the high of 3,000 words her thoughts coalesced to a poem she had written years ago. She fished it out.

 

Muse

Her hair,

Wild and free, not tangled,

Spread a net, a flare

Of separate threads,

Each a gorgeous word

Hooking my idealistic soul

With its scent

Of iridescent jewels,

Of Tibetan gongs,

Yak butter candle wax,

Chants rising

Over the wild bed

With the wet sheets.

 

Abandoning the keyboard, Carol stretched and hit the shower.

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