A Day in the Life of an Author
by Lorelie Brown
6:00 a.m.: Wake. Take the two small dogs outside while checking my phone. Shower. Sneak in a couple pages of reading.
7:30 a.m.: Commute to work. Listen to loud music. Make grand “I will write THIS” tonight plans.
8:00 a.m.: Day job. Greet customers. File paperwork. Drink too much Diet Coke. Try to avoid the temptation of tweeting via my phone.
10:30 a.m.: Break. Mean to read. Play SimCity instead.
12:00 p.m.: Go to the gym to run. I love running but I hate the too-high temperature that the YMCA sets their A/C to. Super sweaty.
1:00 p.m.: Back to day job. Process meeting minutes. Why does that commission exist anyway? They haven’t managed to get anything done in years. Space out during meeting, thinking about how hot Gal Gadot is.
5:00 p.m.: Commute. Listen to a podcast. Wonder whether podcasts are inhibiting my creative processes because they occupy time I could be thinking about stories.
5:50 p.m.: Take teenager to “pasta party” with his cross country team. They have an away meet tomorrow.
6:00 p.m.: Dinner. There’s eight people in my family. It’s loud and chaotic and awesome.
7:00 p.m.: Al Anon meeting. Shh. Secret things happen here. I’m not supposed to talk about them.
9:00 p.m.: A little bit of knitting while watching true crime shows. Dateline is a rerun, which is such a disappointment. Watch Serial Killer Diaries on YouTube instead. Lots of British criminals, which means I didn’t know them already. Yay for new killers!
10:00 p.m.: Bed time. Fall asleep thinking about pretty women doing things and five different stories I could maybe write.
Didja notice something? No writing here. I’ve come to accept something about myself: I have a writing season and an off season. I used to be one of those people who believed I must work every day! or my writing brain would shrivel! and I’d never write a story again!
And then I burned out. I couldn’t keep up. I’ve come to fully ascribe to the “filling the well/sharpening the sword/whatever metaphor you want to make” method. I have to take time off and recharge. Lately this has made me about a two-book a year author. I don’t know if I’ll stay at this pace. If certain life things (like omg, 8 people in my house, all with their own drama) settle down, maybe I’d be able to increase my production. Maybe I won’t.
I’m invested in writing the best books I’m capable of. And if that means I need to invest time in Al Anon so I can learn to be healthier, so be it. If that means that I spend time knitting and watching documentaries? I’m so into it.
About Her Hometown Girl
I had doubts before the Big Day—doesn’t everyone?—but I didn’t expect to find my fiancée banging the caterer’s assistant right before the ceremony. Especially because he’s a guy. And we’re lesbians. The proper sort of Southern Californian lesbians who invest in hedge funds and wear bedazzled wedding dresses and wouldn’t be caught dead in a Subaru.
But then I became a runaway bride, headed straight for Belladonna Ink to get the kind of tattoo I always wanted and my ex always called trashy. She didn’t approve of a lot of things I did. I think maybe she didn’t approve of who I am.
So I’m determined to be as much of myself as I can manage. Dating my tattoo artist? I’m in. Cai is smart, sexy, and mysterious. Exactly what I need for a rebound. She keeps herself guarded, but I understand—I’m holding on to secrets too. The kind of secrets that make a girl want to run home to Mom, even if home is Idaho. Maybe especially then. I just didn’t expect Cai to come with me.
I wonder what it would take to get her to stay forever.
Now available from Riptide Publishing. http://www.riptidepublishing.com/titles/her-hometown-girl
About the Belladonna Ink Universe
Belladonna Ink is the hottest female-centric tattoo parlor in Southern California. It doesn’t matter if you’re cis, trans, het, gay, or spectrum, our host of female tattoo artists will give you beautiful ink, personally designed. We don’t believe in paint-by-number drawings—you’re worth more than that. Give us a chance and we’ll help you find the meaning in your personal scribbles, and turn your skin into our professional canvas.
Just one thing: it’s really weird, but all our friends and some of our artists keep falling in love. Maybe it’s something in the ink.
Check out Belladonna Ink! http://www.riptidepublishing.com/titles/universe/belladonna-ink
About Lorelie Brown
After a seminomadic childhood throughout California, Lorelie Brown spent high school in Orange County before joining the US Army. After traveling the world from South Korea to Italy, she now lives north of Chicago. She writes her Pacific Blue series of hot surfers in order to channel some warmth.
Lorelie has three active sons, two yappy dogs, and a cat who cusses her out on a regular basis for not petting him enough.
In her immense free time (hah!) Lorelie cowrites award-winning contemporary erotic romance under the name Katie Porter. You can find out more about the Vegas Top Guns and Command Force Alpha series at www.KatiePorterBooks.com or at @MsKatiePorter. You can also contact Lorelie on Twitter @LorelieBrown.
Connect with Lorelie:
To celebrate the release of Her Hometown Girl, one lucky winner will receive a bottle of Macallan single malt whisky! Contest IS restricted to both US entries and to those over the age of 21. Leave a comment with your contact info to enter the contest. Entries close at midnight, Eastern time, on September 9, 2017. Thanks for following the tour, and don’t forget to leave your contact info!
It turns out that getting a tattoo hurts. I expected a sting, sure. But getting a flu shot isn’t a big deal—it’s the soreness the next day that actually hurts.
Yeah, getting inked isn’t like that. It’s a thousand wasps attacking my skin as a Hitachi Magic Wand vibrates my toes off my foot.
“You okay?” my tattoo artist asks, but she doesn’t stop what she’s doing. Cai. Her name is Cai. I met her almost two hours ago, when I walked into Belladonna Ink based on Yelp reviews.
“Do you want me to stop?” I hear the amusement in her voice. She scrubs another lick of fire down the center of my calf. “Just warning you, if you take a break and then get going again, pretty much everyone agrees it hurts worse.”
“Aren’t you a pile of sunshine?”
“Can sunshine pile? Isn’t the expression ‘a ray of sunshine’?”
I smash my cheek against the chair’s support ring thingy. Paper crinkles. “Is this like food service where I shouldn’t tell you how much I hate you because you’ll spit in my soup? If I tell you how I really feel, will you draw a poop emoji on me?”
“No, because you’ll walk around for the rest of your life telling everyone who’ll listen that I drew that shit.”
“This is true.” I blow out a long, shaky breath and am mortified to realize my nose is snotty and I’m holding back tears. Not surprised, but still embarrassed.
It’s been a long day.
It’s been a long, horrible, no-good, very bad day.
I slept in until eight, and that has probably been the best part of my day. Only twelve hours ago, and an entire lifetime. Two hours after that was mostly okay: brunch with my future mother-in-law and my maid of honor and a couple of others. Jody wasn’t with us because she’d wanted to get in a long run before the rich food of the reception. All as expected. Then the makeup artists and hairdressers showed up, and there was still no sign of Jody.
I didn’t start getting anxious until I was staring out the window as the hairdresser swept up my long curls and piled them on my head. Jody wasn’t answering my texts. I wish I could have said it wasn’t like her. I couldn’t. A few stories below, I could see hotel staff was setting up for our event. All the chairs were out already, and a florist swagged satin and arranged white roses. The red carpet had been unrolled across the sand, leading toward the waves.
I was already in my wedding dress.
As soon as my hair was done, I slipped out the back door of the suite, down the hallway, and up two floors to Jody’s room. The door wasn’t closed. Jody’s neon-orange leggings were jammed in the way. I picked them up and push the door open slowly.
I saw every inch of penis plunging into her.
After that, it was all over but the shouting. Well, telling Jody’s family too. At least I didn’t have to tell mine. And naturally Jody bailed, leaving me alone to tell everyone what had happened.
She’s lucky I didn’t tell them all about why it was canceled. So freaking lucky.
I sent the bar staff home, told the florists to deliver everything to a nearby synagogue, and stiffed the caterer. Maybe I’ll feel bad about that tomorrow. Maybe I won’t.
The ginger-pubed baby-faced catering assistant had stiffed Jody plenty, after all.