Job Satisfaction

The joy of being an author, of having a job that I love is that I get job satisfaction at every turn. Just sitting down to blank document brings me joy, the first word typed is always a thrill.

I don’t even have to be physically writing to get excited. The moment an idea pops into my mind I come alive and I enjoy every moment of developing that one thought into a scene and a scene into a story. I am blessed to have such a love for something that also makes me some money.

And of course, I get a thrill every time a story is taken on by a publisher, every time a contract drops into my mailbox or a royalty cheque comes my way. A book cover design is always something to gladden my heart and day of release find myself as giddy as kid after school on a Friday filled up with sweets and with a weekend of fun ahead.

But there is a thrill so much bigger and better than any of that, something that comes with a certain satisfaction that goes very much deeper than any of the other joys I experience whilst writing or going through the imaginative processes. This thrill comes when I finish writing a story. When I write the very last word and I know that that is it, the story is complete.

Now, you may argue that it isn’t so. It needs editing and it may get swapped and changed about at a later stage but I would argue that that is all cosmetic. The minute I write my last word is the moment of completion and I feel a great relief, a great release as that happens.

This morning I typed that last word on my latest story. “Getting Intimate” it is in the hands of my publisher now and I wait, a little nervously for good news. It is the sequel to “Getting Physical” and will, in the end, be followed by another story, to finish it and turn it into a trilogy. I am very excited about it because Terri and John are very dear to my heart and I have really enjoyed writing with them again.

For those of you who haven’t read “Getting Physical” here is a short excerpt from the book.

“Ah, yes. You must be Terri. I’m Mark, and I’m going to show you round the machines.”

Mark looked like such a big, fit gym freak, but he was very nice as he took me around the different pieces of (torture) equipment. After a quick go on everything, he left me to my own devices to do a bit more
on the machines of my choice.

After the treadmill, I wanted to do something that involved sitting, so I found a rower that was free and sat my fat ass down on it. I didn’t feel as massive and blobby as I thought I might. There were a few
“real” people in there that evening, but there were also some very intimidating thin and sweaty individuals.

One particular fit fellow caught my eye. He was peddling away on a bike as I rowed, and my eyes were repeatedly drawn to his pumping thighs. His legs were long and lean beneath his black shorts. The arms that showed below his sleeveless T-shirt looked strong and manly. I reckoned they could give a very good hug; also I was pretty sure they’d not let a man down whilst fucking missionary style.

I took a deep breath and turned my concentration to rowing. Such a lean, thin and gorgeous man would never look twice at this boring, brunette blob anyway. Well, I suppose I have some pretty impressive breasts “natural and still quite perky” and my bottom may be big, but it is wonderfully squeezable, or so I’ve been told. But the kind of guy who hones his body to such an extent was not going to want a gym-shy girlfriend like me. If he’s around in the future when I popped in to work out, at least I’d have something nice to look at.

He was still peddling away like Billy-o as I gingerly got up from the rowing seat. My knees ached, and my back protested loudly. I thought I should use just one more instrument of torture for the day, then I could legitimately call it quits. The exercise bike was not too torturous and could be used to effectively wind down; the problem was the only bike left was next to the health god I’d just been drooling over.

I almost chickened out then and there, but Mark must have seen my move towards the bike and misinterpreted my hesitation.

“Can you remember how to use the bike?” his deep, powerful voice boomed from the reception desk behind me.

“Yes. Yes, thanks.” I turned my head and smiled at Mark. Next thing I knew I was peddling sedately along next to the guy with the nutcracker thighs whilst trying my hardest to keep my gaze straight ahead. In spite of myself, I kept glancing to the side to admire the mellow brown of his skin and the deep, dark black of his hair. It was short at the back and sides and peaked into multiple spikes upon his head. Very cool, very fashionable, and another visual pointer to the impossibility of him ever being attracted to me.

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