Recently our son and his two children ages 4 and 2 years had to move back in with us. I'd become accustom to having all day to write since my husband travels for his job Monday through Friday usually. My carefree, quiet time was shattered.
While it's fun having the 'grands' as I refer to them it's been a challenge finding time to write, but I have found the time, because I 'made' time to write. My schedule goes like this, get up around at four or five a.m. write until 7 or 7:30 a.m. when the first grand comes downstairs. Breakfast for him and me, then his sister the two year old comes scooting down the stairs about an hour later. Fix something for her, she's is the hungry one first thing in the morning so filling her up is a challenge. A quick wash off follows, she defines the meaning of 'digging into' your meal. Everyone gets dressed and the day begins, right now the grandson is in pre-school four days a week. Little sister stays home with me as our son takes him to school. Our granddaughter and I then have 'girl' time. Which either commences of us cuddling on the sofa watching her favorite show, or if she's happy on her own, I run to the computer getting a page or two in if I'm lucky, some days we have too many errands, and writing doesn't get done until later that night.
Once our son and grandson come home, our son takes over completely, and I work for another hour or two. Then its dinner time, bath time, t.v. time, then bedtime, I have one or two shows I might watch, until ten or eleven and then it's back to work. Depending on how tired I am I may only work one hour before bed, but I make that hour a 'good' hour getting in as much as possible.
With all this jumping on and off my laptop it's hard getting back into the story sometimes. I use my mp3player, and a scented candle (when the grands aren't around since I work from our kitchen table) to help get me back in the writing mood each time. Reading the last two to five pages I worked on before to put myself back in the story helps also.
Last year I had one novel, two novellas, and two short stories published. I hope to repeat those numbers and possible add on to them this year. If becoming an author is important to you, you have to 'make' the time yourself to write, because no one else will do it for you.
The Tarczal Alliance -
Logan Kincaid was trying to find the spy in his company when she walked in, - long blond hair, longer legs, and intelligent green eyes – damn, all his weaknesses rolled into one. He’d lived for 445 yrs. believing the Blood Witches and T’yhiéls of his vampiric childhood were nothing but myths until one walked into his life and all hell broke loose.
Excerpt from The Tarczal Alliance
“You disagree the painting is showy?” He turned the subject back to the painting, and with practiced ease, he returned what he surmised was a compliment from the flush blooming on her cheeks. He indulged himself by allowing his gaze to rake over her. A whine like a mosquito’s settled in his ears.
“The artist captured Kandinsky’s style completely,” she sputtered. Logan didn’t give a damn about the painting or the artist. He wondered if the large, dark purple sweater that hung mid-thigh on her was an attempt to hide her body. If that was her goal, the tight black stretch pants, and thigh-high ebony suede boots were a poor choice. Any movement pulled the sweater tight like a second skin over her compact, lithe body.
“Absolutely. He copied a style. You wouldn’t have, Ms?” She fidgeted, and the movement caused the sweater to pull snug over her breasts making them stand out like ripened fruit and accented her flat stomach. Nice. Bet that stomach quivers when a tongue is run over it. Wonder what she’d do with a tongue in her belly button? She’s probably a giggler. He licked his lips. And a squirmer. It was apparent she had no idea what she did to him. He didn’t mind. Several parts of his anatomy were already stirring in response. Her front equaled the heart-shaped derriere he’d seen earlier while she browsed the competition.
“Weston. Allyson Weston. How did you know I paint?” The tiny frown across her brow made him want to laugh. So this was the estranged wife of his latest hire, Michael Weston. During the job interview Michael had constantly moaned and bitched about his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Guess Michael didn’t grasp he’d let go of an extraordinary woman. Logan let his gaze travel down to her legs, dancer’s legs, long and well-defined. Legs any man would enjoy wrapped around him.
Smoothly, Logan reached down, slipping his hand under hers bringing both up to eye level. “You have paint under your nails.” His thumb brushed the skin of her knuckles.
“Oh.”
Quickly, she withdrew her hand from his. Next, she folded her arms across her mid-section, lifting the orbs and tucking her hands safely under her arms.
Logan’s smile widened. “Do you have family in town?” His attention wandered back to the boots she wore. The way they encased her legs from toe to over the knee were a wonderful enticement, and his imagination flared to a deliciously wicked conclusion when she interrupted his assessment of her intriguing appendages by blurting out. “An STB.”
How fresh, honest, and naive she was. Logan bit back a chuckle. Heroes and bartenders: everyone trusted them, confiding intimate details of their lives they’d never reveal to anyone else, an interesting quirk of human nature. He arched an eyebrow in query, and she clarified. “Soon-to-be-ex-husband.”
He stopped himself before he could lick his lips. At the same time the essence of her blood rose from beneath her skin to mingle with the pungent leather of her boots. He inhaled more deeply, drawing it inside him, and swirled his tongue in his mouth to better experience the bouquet. Sweet, delicate, and exotic. Fit for the gods. He stopped his feeder teeth from slipping into place. A taste of her blood would never be enough, and an ocean too little for a man to quench his thirst. Stunned, he wondered where that thought come from, while trying to wish away the growing arousal in his groin. The whirr in his ears grew a little louder.
J. Paulette can be found at: www.jpauletteforshey
Twitter @forsheyJ
bio:
Paulette lives in a small Ohio town with her husband, and a princess Basset Hound. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Central Ohio Fiction Writers, Southeastern Ohio Novel Writing Group, Northeast Ohio Romance Writers of America, and the Fantasy, Futuristic & Paranormal Chapter of RWA. She also writes under the name of Genevieve Delacroix.
These pictures are of Michael showing us his SWAT vest. Some of the items on the vest include; earpiece for communication, water bottle, ammo clips, radio, flashlight, door-stop called a wedge, cuffs and key, and a flash-bang. 
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