Page 40 of Rogue's Path
Neither of which should be hard to immerse myself in.
The waterfall winds through the bar, cascading down the rocks and tree trunks, creating a whole new world.
A couple hikes through the woods to find the secret waterfall. The crisp, clear water makes the perfect romantic spot for a picnic.
You don’t write romance. Don’t start writing all sweet kisses.
Fine, the cute couple could find a body on the way to their favorite glade. A woman would be expected, so let’s make it a guy’s body. To balance out the beauty of everything, he could be covered in poison ivy, which they think is what killed him. But really, he died because he ingested a wild, poisonous mushroom.
This so doesn’t feel like me. It needs to be gritty and dark.
Maybe the couple could find him on the way back to their car, right as the sun was starting to set. In his hand could be a paper that had their names and the word run on it.
Better.
Sort of.
That would have spooked them…
Why am I writing a thriller that wants to be a romance?
Rogue!!!
I’m going to blame it on his kisses.
Focus
There are a million mysteries to be written. You have files of outlines to pick from. Just pull one out and start drafting.
That would be such a waste of an inspirational writing spot.
Choose someone and be inspired.
Almost anyone could work.
Like the woman in the corner. She’s in a snazzy business suit—Who even uses the word snazzy anymore? Readers are going to think I’m ninety. This woman is a spy hiding in plain sight. Her government sent her here under deep cover when she was a child. Now she’s traveling the country pretending to be a nuclear inspector, but really, she’s planting bombs at every site.
Firm lips land on mine.
I start to scream and shove when the scent of fresh air and pine hits my nose as my cheek is tickled by coarse mustache hairs.
Rogue! He came!
That’s the last thought I can hold on to for a long moment as his firm lips distract me. Such a lovely distraction.
Just like last time, he pulls away.
I lick my lips, tasting cinnamon. “Who uses cinnamon toothpaste?” Way to go, Dylan. That insightful comment is bound to keep him here, wanting to converse with you.
Except for the first time, Rogue sits down instead of running off. “Hey, Peaches.”
“You know I have a real name.” Someone needs to shoot me before I say something else dumb.
“Sure do. Everyone does.”
A waitress stops by our table and sets down a sandwich just like mine, a bottle of water, and the same peach cake I had yesterday in front of Rogue. He smiles at the waitress like he knows her. He probably does. He lives here.
There’s no great mystery there.
