Hey!

You're getting this because you opted in to peer over my shoulder while I write When the River Rises. If you'd rather not get these Friday emails, just click here and I'll take you off this extra, super-special list, no hard feelings. You'll still get the Tuesday emails like everybody else.

I did not do the thing.

Last week I said I would write 15,000 by the time of sending this email. (This email, which I put off sending until this evening, hoping I could eke out the word count at the eleventh hour.)

The bad news: I didn't write 15,000 words.

The good news: I did write 11,000, which is more than zero!

My target length for a novel is usually 75,000. My books have landed slightly above and slightly below that target in the past, but I expect this one to run closer to 80,000. That means I still have a LONG way to go.

Here's about 1000 words from the start of the story. I'd love to know what you think...

Like he did on many Friday nights, Cam trudged into a bar district to meet his friends like he was marching to the guillotine. And that was before he knew that anyone was trying to kill him.

At that point all that was on his mind was ordinary reluctance—the strong urge to turn around, go home, change into his silky pajamas and watch the Food Network until he fell asleep.

Heaven.

Except he wouldn’t really spend the night relaxing, but instead worrying about his final exams the next day. At this point, studying wouldn’t be productive. He already knew the material in and out; reviewing it nonstop would only wear him out. Plus, Cam didn’t want to waste his twenties by giving into his reclusive tendencies entirely. So here he was. 

Being sociable with his small but close four-person friend group. And keeping himself open to the small chance of meeting a guy.

When he was actually asked why he was perpetually single, Cam claimed he didn’t have time for a boyfriend. The truth was he thought wistfully about dating someone for real even more than he thought about getting laid. Having someone’s hand to hold. Someone’s feet in his lap while he watched the Food Network.

Fuck, it sounded pathetic, which was exactly why he didn’t admit it out loud.

What was more likely than finding a boyfriend, and didn’t lack appeal, was that he might find a hookup. He felt a faint tingle in his cock at the passing thought; he’d been a little keyed up since he left the apartment. It was like his body was trained to associate the smell of his own cologne and his going-out jeans with the possibility of a quick handjob or maybe a little head.

The downside being, those activities would take place in a sticky bar restroom or, if he were feeling brave (he usually wasn’t) a stranger’s car or nearby apartment.

Sad, what he’d put up with in the name of getting laid. If only porn and toys were adequate substitutes, he’d never have to compromise his feelings about hygiene in the name of a satisfying orgasm, ever again.

Just as Cam registered this particularly depressing thought, he reached the entrance to the bar his friends had last texted him from.

The allure of the Food Network—and his pajamas, ugh—was stronger than ever. But when a man opened the door for the woman he was with, Cam was nudged by the opportunity to slip in behind them without having to touch the brass door-pull himself.

The bar wasn’t particularly crowded, which was a surprise, because Cam’s new roommate, Kellen, tended to dictate where everyone went and when they left, and he liked their spots to be near full-capacity.

So Cam wasn’t exactly surprised when he looked around, the thin crowds making it easy to sweep the room, and didn’t see a familiar face. 

He sidestepped out of the way of the door to stand next to an empty table and pulled out his phone to text, I’m here, but I think you guys must have moved on already?

He sent it and hoped for an instant response, but the message showed as unread even after several seconds. Cam was probably flirting, or telling a story, or dancing madly, with no idea his phone had lit up. Damn it.

Cam looked around uncomfortably. The bartender gave him a quick welcoming smile, which made him wonder if he should order a drink. But that would be stupid. One drink here in silence, or scrolling his phone, would just put him that much further behind his friends, and while he never got quite as drunk as they did, he didn’t want to be totally sober when they were already pretty far gone.

He took a few steps toward the bar, hesitated, and then abruptly spun around to go back out the door instead.

As he changed course, the doors opened again, and a tall, dark-haired, reed-thin guy in a leather jacket slipped in.

And, damn, he was hot. Way too hot for Cam. Which meant that there was no use in Cam lingering here hoping that he was one of the people who came to this neighborhood for its intersection of queer people and queer-friendly straights. But he looked, anyway, and was startled when the guy looked back. 

Dark brown eyes under severe, thick brows, his face framed by a dark beard too—Cam actually shuddered.

There was nothing pretty about this guy. His features were just this side of severe. But he had that hint of danger that went a lot further than the leather jacket, and that just did it for Cam. And other people too, made obvious by how heads turned all around the room when the guy walked toward the back and disappeared into the narrow hallway under the sign for the restrooms.

Cam entertained a very self-indulgent fantasy of following him back there, sauntering into the single-stall bathroom and locking the door behind him. Shimmying out of his jeans and leaning over something—anything—for that tall, lanky body. He wouldn’t even care how filthy everything was.

Then, he yanked himself back to reality when his phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down to find a reply from Kellen, apologizing for forgetting to report the migration and naming a bar a few doors down.

Cam glanced toward the hallway where the hot stranger had gone, filed away his fantasy for future, solo-session reference, and went to join his friends.

Goal for next week: 25,000 words. I think I can do it, but I'm going to need to stay focused--always my struggle.

Have a great weekend. ❤️

xo, Rachel