I have a file on my computer for all the books I have started and never finished. Some of it I might bring back like a zombie... some of the work will stay dead.
When I first started writing, I wrote a book where the character was surprised to meet a man. There was a lot going on in that story and one of my friends asked me, why are women and men separated? That was the birth of the Ice Era Chronicles. I had to go to the very start...
Anyway, here is a piece of my oldest writing from my novel graveyard. This is just for fun and I don't know if this will ever be brought back to life or not. Only time will tell.
***
 Lana looked back at the slightly open door and knew that El hadn’t left so, where was she? As if the answer was waiting in the air, Lana heard the shower turn on and turned to look at the door leading to the bathroom.
For a second Lana was indecisive. She knew she should just sit in the living room and wait until El got out of the shower, but a huge part of her was feeling impatient after what happened last night.
Moving closer to the door, she could hear water sloshing. If she remembered right this bathroom looked much like Lana’s had before she'd changed it. As she recalled it was a large tile room with a toilet and a sink right by the door. The shower was simply a large sunflower shower-head hooked to the ceiling in the corner with a drain directly under it. It would be no big a deal if Lana just took a tiny peek at El.
Lana’s impulsive side won out over her more cautious side, and she pushed her hair over her shoulder as she considered how hot it would be to see El in the shower.
Biting her bottom lip so she wouldn't make a sound, Lana pushed open the door to the bathroom and leaned in so she could see between the small crack she had made.
El had her back to the door so Lana got a great view of El’s muscular back and long, strong looking legs. She also got a very nice view of her very well put together ass.
Lana licked her lips and totally disregarding the idea that El had rebuffed her last night because she was embarrassed over her body. Lana watched El rinse the soap from her hair and the suds caught on her burly arms and shoulders before it made a lazy path down her thighs.
Lana’s heart start to beat a little faster and she was amazed that just looking at El could make her ache deep in her core. After seeing El naked, Lana could understand why someone would do the kind of drugs El had done. If Lana thought that drugs could make her look that good she would consider it herself.
Lana knew she was doing something wrong and her guilty conscience forced her to go. As she turned slightly, she noticed that part of El’s shirt was stuck in the door. She crouched and wiggled the fabric out so that the door would shut correctly.
As soon as the garment was free, Lana stood up and was struck dumb. Her shock was so strong that it rendered her completely frozen. El had turned to lean part way against the far wall. She had her face turned toward the water with her eyes closed. Lana only barely noticed that El’s eyes were closed because her full attention was on what was in between El’s legs.
El was touching between her legs, and at first Lana was sure that El was holding a flesh colored dildo, but as Lana’s eyes swept El’s body she knew she wasn’t looking at a woman. Something deep inside of her that was primitive and earthy demanded she acknowledge what she was seeing. The thought that El was a man whispered insidiously in her head and she couldn’t get it out.
Lana was a statue and she tried to do something, but her limbs refused to move. She contemplated that first she should call the H.S.P.C. or yell at El, but the more she thought about it the more she thought maybe she should strip naked and join this man in the shower.
Lana flipped her eyes up to El’s chest and realized he didn’t have any breasts. El had to be a man. It was the only thing that made any sense. El had a completely flat chest with only small flat nipples and as her eyes traveled over El’s body she noticed all the muscles of his stomach and down the front of his legs.
 As if she couldn’t help it, her eyes traveled back to what El was holding in his hand. Lana watched transfixed as El ran his hand up and down over the part between his legs. He had what seemed to her a very tight grip and she could see his muscles flexing and jumping as he pumped.
Lana could see concentration etched on his face and his other hand began to slowly pet and tug on the sac hanging beneath that part in his hand. He moaned, but the sound was a strange mix of a woman’s pitch and a growl like she had never heard before.
Lana felt her whole body stirring to life as she watched him move his hips slightly to the rhythm he had created for himself. She felt her nipples harden to needy tips and her lower lips were slick as if just begging for whatever he had. Lana could tell her breathing had changed and it had become merely a swallow sound. She was having a hard time pulling her eyes away from what he was doing. Her eyes grew wide when he bucked his hips forward and a hiss escaped from his lips.

​ I often see my fellow authors publishing books. The feeling I get when I see another new book pass my feed is a mix of two things. I feel inspired to work harder. I think “Wow! They really are writing so much! I should get back to my story asap.” And then another feeling crowds in... “I will never be as good as… (Fill in the author).”
The funny thing about that last sentence is, I never started out to be like anyone. I don’t know why I get worried if my books aren’t like someone else’s story. Most authors I see and meet are working toward the goal of not working full-time at a job they hate. They want to be a full-time writer and make enough money to be at home writing. I don’t know what I’m complaining about… I have that now. I have the unique opportunity to be able to write every day and work with my better half, whom I love. I’m living the dream. So why do I get so worried? Sometimes I wish I could just hold on to that initial feeling of excitement when I see another author put out a book. I feel so pumped up to work on my manuscript. If I could bottle up that feeling and be able to drink it, I would suck it down every time I was feeling low. Maybe that’s why authors like Hemingway were alcoholics? Courage in a bottle?
I know. Put down the liquor and just write.
​Good advice.