Wow, 2019 has been off to a crazy busy start. Snow, cold, ice, a quick warm up and then sleet and frozen streets, such is life in the Midwest. The wonderful thing about the crappy weather is that it has given me plenty of extra time to spend in my office, either behind the desk or curled up in the easy chair beneath a mound of blankets typing away on my latest story.

The as yet to be titled rocker/bodyguard tale first began to take shape over four years ago, as little snippets of pieces showing Jesse Winters, my rocker MC, alone in a cabin in the mountains trying to write new music and deal with some of the issues that had taken place on the bands last tour. With so much stress between him and his bandmates, he teeters on the edge of giving up on the band and music all together.

Enter Ryker, who lands at the same secluded little cabin for a variety of reasons of his own, namely, it being owned by his cousin, the basest in Jesse’s band, and it being out of the way from society, something he is not quite ready to renter yet. Of course, there have been fireworks between the two, Jesse not wanting his solitude intruded on, coupled with the demons he’s been battling, have left him brittle and stressed. Ryker hasn’t been in a much better mindset, but he has tried his best to be patient with Jesse, despite how difficult Jesse makes it at times.

The funny thing about this story is I always knew where I wanted it to go but getting there seemed to have more twists and turns than Snake River. At one point the story had reached 92,000 plus words, only for me to cut half of it out and start reworking the beginning. Strangely enough, it has slowly began building a stronger bridge of communication between them.

Over the years I’ve tried a variety of writing styles, planning, pantsing, a hybrid between the two. Storyboarding, writing exercises, outlining, beat sheets, and yet, I have come to the realization that it doesn’t matter how well thought out things are or how well I think I know the characters they will up and do something to shock me. Such is the fun of a writer’s life. I’ve come to look at every day as Christmas Morning, with potential surprises around every corner and the occasional box of socks. Of course, when those socks turn out to be fluffy Rick and Morty ones, it always makes my day.

Just recently, I was attending a writer’s forum, and the facilitator posed the question to all of us in attendance of ‘what would you do if you weren’t a writer?’ I found myself stumped. Being a writer was the only thing I ever wanted to be. Before I knew fan fiction existed I was changing the ends of movies, scribbling add on chapters to my favorite shows, and letting my imagination carry the characters I loved on different journeys, until a time came when I began creating characters of my own.

My life without writing in it would be dull, colorless, scary even, because what would I do with all the voices in my head if they couldn’t spill out onto the page? When I sit down to write, time melts, sound dims, I’ve even had a few people say they could blow up the house around me and I wouldn’t notice until I lifted my head.

I call it coming up for air, because it reminds me of swimming and the thing I always loved the most about the water, which was the way it had of blocking out everything else. The rhythmic motion of swimming laps in a pool or the roll of the waves out in the ocean have an almost hypnotic effect, like writing, I can get lost in the act and leave everything else behind.

Not being able to write would be like telling a fish it was no longer allowed to swim, it doesn’t work. Fish were made for swimming and I was made for writing and trying to think of something else to do is a waste of perfectly good braincells, ‘cause they would abandon ship if the stories couldn’t seep through. It is my passion, my joy, and just about the only way I can convey the thoughts and emotions I can’t bring myself to speak.

If you’ve made it to the bottom of my little spiel, thank you, I tend to ramble sometimes. So without further Ado, here is a snippet of Ryker and Jesse’s story.

**
The winds whipped against the truck so hard, it rocked, throwing him out of the past. A mercy, despite the violence of the storm. He took that as his cue to get out, grab his duffle bag, and head for the door. Every step took effort. The snow was piled high and some of the drifts were well past his knees. How easy would it be to lay down and go to sleep in it, never to wake again. He found himself forging a sloppy path to the door complete with an outline of his body when he face planted inches from the steps. He didn’t want to think of how painful that misstep could have been, or perhaps, it would have made things easier for him to give himself over to the cold. Instead, he gripped the hand rail and climbed the steps, coming to stand before the door of the cabin.

Knocking loudly, Ryker shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him as he waited. He was just about to knock again when the door swung open to reveal wary green eyes in a too pale face framed by dark, cascading waves of blond hair. Ryker blinked, stunned at the outright hostility that pulled the man’s lips down into a scowl, his trim beard and mustache only serving to emphasize it more. The backward, inside out, wrinkled long sleeved t-shirt he wore was twisted near the waistline, revealing a swatch of pale abs. It looked as though he’d hastily yanked it on, on his way to the door.

“Pretty sure you’re at the wrong cabin,” the guy growled, moving to shut the door in Ryker’s face. Slamming his hand against it was the only thing that kept him from being left out in the cold.

“Even in it’s the wrong cabin, which I don’t think it is, there’s a storm coming in case you hadn’t noticed, so I think I’ll just come in out of it, thanks” Ryker stated, taking a step forward and trying to wedge himself through the opening. The other man held firm however and they stood there glaring at one another.

“Look,” the man snapped, “you could be a psycho or a serial killer for all I know, so you ain’t getting in here. I’ve got enough problems without ending up dead.”

Ryker could all but feel the impatience radiating off the other man, which was fine by him, he was getting pretty god damned impatient and cold himself.

“You look,” Ryker shot back, studying the guy more intently. Something about him looked really damned familiar.” I’ve been on the road for hours. It’s fucking cold out here and it’s snowing buckets. I’m supposed to be at my cousin’s cabin, which the GPS says is right here. So here I am and I’ve got no intention of driving anywhere until the shit lets up. My cousin’s name is Kyle…”

[***]

Jesse couldn’t believe this shit. When he saw Kyle, he was gonna choke him to death with his own bass strings.

“…Morrison,” Jesse finished with a sigh. “Yeah, this is his cabin, though it’s supposed to be my cabin for the next four months. I fuckin’ told him when he offered it that I was coming up alone and had plans to stay that way. So why the hell would he send you?”

“Maybe because not everything is about you.”

**
Wishing you light, love, and peace,
Layla Dorine