Signed – or Why I Hate How my Mind Works

I can no longer play games on my desktop, it’s that messed up. It was a free upgrade, and still works for things like editing and writing. Basically, my computer is forcing me to work when I wanted to play video games.

This time of year is high stress for me. I want to relax sometimes and just unwind by killing things in a wasteland, or lighting my dolls on fire. 

Instead, I opened Signed yesterday afternoon and started writing. The first chapter took six hours to write, the second two. I was up until almost two in the morning writing when I wanted to be playing a game and taking over the world.

I dreamed of Signed last night. 

This is a problem with me, and I know it is. Sometimes I get caught on tangents and can’t get off until it’s written out. The entire trilogy is acting like that.

All at once. 

I’ve had books overlap before, both playing out on repeat inside my head as I finish one and am going to start another, but never three. And certainly not from the beginning of the first book. Two chapters in, Nathaniel’s Master is tying him up in all kinds of places and doing all sorts to him. 

Half of it won’t even make it into the book, a line has to be drawn somewhere, damn it. 

More just keeps getting tossed onto the pile. And more. 

Then Dorian made a comment, because he’s expressed a desire to be there when I do research on these things. I suppose, so he knows what he’s getting himself into. 

“Why in male/male domination porn does one always where that little strap thing over their shoulders?”

If you saw it, you’d know the one he meant. It’s the kind of thing that might hold wings on for a Halloween costume, except made of leather.

At those words, Mr. Wrightworth popped into my head, grabbed a random male character, slapped one on him and grabbed it by the strap that runs between the shoulder blades. 

“Men typically don’t have hair to tangle a hand it, a grip on a shoulder does not give the control one needs. With this, however…”

Thanks for that thought, Mr. Wrightworth. 

“Aya, why do you have that look on your face?” Dorian asked.

I could only whimper in response. 

It is with great uneasiness that I head into work, worried about what might happen in my errant thoughts. I plot my stories at work. Most  of the time this isn’t a problem at all and all revolves around PG13 type of material. 

Smutt is left for the bus rides or at home. Work is the place to figure out how they say things and what the reaction would be to having breakfast taken away.

Nathaniel and his Master don’t seem to want to obey my rules though. They don’t react to threats to beat them, because they went into this knowing things were not going to go well for them.

So my uttering threats does absolutely nothing. I can’t threaten the other of them, holding one hostage because… I don’t even know why. 

I have two days off coming up. Without the ability to play games I only have one hope: a writing marathon to get as much of Signed written as I can before I go back to work.

That’s right, I’m aiming for a fifty thousand word weekend, if only to shut the pair of them up for a few hours.

Wish me luck.

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