Inspiration is fickle. One day you’ll be seized by an idea that just won’t let you go. You throw yourself into the writing, intoxicated by the process of creation, certain this will be the best book you’ve ever produced. The sentences and paragraphs flow, the story taking shape on the page almost without effort.
Then, suddenly and inexplicably, the fire dies out. The magic evaporates, and you’re left to plod along, trying dutifully to complete the opus to which you’ve devoted your time, despite your doubts about its quality.
If you’re trying to make a living writing, you can’t afford to wait for the muse. You’ve got to produce. If, like me, you write primarily for the joy of the process, you may abandon the entire project when your inspiration disappears.
That’s what happened with By Moonlight. For years, I’d wanted to write an erotic tale based on the Alfred Noyes poem “The Highwayman”. One day the stars aligned. I sat down and wrote the first chapter in a couple of hours. It turned out exactly as I’d imagined it, both lyrical and arousing. I was chuffed, as my UK author friends would say, eager to push the tale forward.
The next weekend, though, when I sat down to continue, I discovered that inspiration had fled. The whole notion seemed silly. I really couldn’t force myself to write any more.
So I put the barely-started tale aside and worked on something else. I always have lots of potential projects in mind, far more than my writing time allows.
That was four years ago. I’d almost forgotten By Moonlight. Then a stormy night recently reminded me of the poem, and the poem reminded me of the story. When I pulled it up and re-read it, I was freshly impressed and determined to complete it.
After such a long lag, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to recreate the tone of that intense first installment. Fortunately I was able to get feedback from my online critique partners, who helped me to adjust the language and the atmosphere appropriately. All in all, I’m happy with the result. I think I’ve managed to fulfill my intentions, offering homage to the Noyes poem while twisting the story in an original (and happier) direction.
The lesson here, though, is clear. If you are an author, don’t throw anything away! Keep all your snippets, all your abandoned projects, all your monuments to the departed muse.
You really never know when inspiration will return.
I’ll come for you by moonlight – though Hell should bar the way
In her eighteen years on earth, Bess has never traveled more than twenty miles from her Devonshire village. The raven-haired innkeeper’s daughter has little time to dream of adventure as she labors from dawn to dusk to keep her abusive father satisfied.
Then, at the weekly market in Tavistock town, she meets a handsome dandy who claims her with a single stolen kiss. When the gallant gentleman makes a midnight visit to the inn, Bess learns that her new lover is none other than Kit Latour, a notorious French highwayman who has been boldly relieving the local nobility of their valuables. Well-aware of the risk she’s taking, Bess still offers herself to the seductive outlaw. Even Kit’s darkest secrets cannot quench the flames of her love.
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“You were very brave tonight, Bess. You made me proud.”
“Brave? How can you say that? I didn’t fight them. I let them take me, bind me, and use me as bait.”
“You didn’t weep or beg. The soldiers in the common room remarked on your boldness. ‘Not a tear did she shed,’ said one. ‘So sure she was that her bloody Frenchman would rescue her.’”
“I dared not hope for rescue. My only thought was to warn you before they could spring their foul trap.”
“Oh, Bess! That would have been fatal.” Kit rose smoothly from her nest by the fire, graceful despite her encumbering skirts. She held out a hand.
Bess clasped the proffered fingers and clambered to her feet. “They planned to execute me in any case. But how I longed for one last kiss!”
“You’ve earned a hundred, love. Starting now.”
A quick tug drew Bess against Kit’s body. Strong arms encircled her, pulling her close, the delicious press of breast against breast making her dizzy with desire.
Kit tasted of the tart fruit she’d just consumed. Forceful as any man, she sealed Bess’s mouth with her own and teased the girl’s lips open to thrust her tongue inside.
Bess responded with equal ardor. Heat swept through her as though it were June instead of October. The fevered kiss struck sparks from her tender nipples. The space between her thighs was a puddle of molten need. Their breath mingled; their tongues twined. She clung to Kit’s lean, road-hardened torso, the shift of powerful muscle under the female costume somehow magnifying her excitement.
Without relinquishing her hold or disengaging from the kiss, Kit backed Bess toward the mattress. They tumbled unceremoniously onto the straw-filled pallet, clawing at one another’s clothing. Buttons flew in all directions when Kit tore open Bess’s bodice. Grasping her partner’s shoulders and pinning her to the mattress, Kit fastened her mouth on one achingly hard nipple that poked through the muslin garment beneath.
“Oh…” The wet suction sent bolts of delight straight to Bess’s clit, as though a fiery cord tethered it to her nipples. When Kit raked her teeth across the taut nip, Bess clenched and shuddered with need. Her empty cunny cried out for her lover’s fingers or tongue.
“Please…” she moaned, dragging her tangled skirts up and spreading her thighs. “Oh, Kit, have mercy!”
The sweet torture continued for several minutes before Kit relented. She rolled back on her heels and gazed into Bess’s eyes, a saucy grin playing on her ripe lips. “So you’re hungry after all, minx! Well, then…” One hand on each thigh, she dove for the gaping slit in Bess’s drawers.
Like an arrow flying to its target, she connected with the swollen bud at the apex of Bess’s sex. Kit sucked the bead into her mouth while prodding it with her tongue. Bess arched off the bed at the sudden, intense stimulation. Then the brazen outlaw plunged two fingers deep into Bess’s quim.
Bess screamed at the sudden incursion. A ragged climax erupted within her, pleasure so fierce it was almost pain. Pinwheels whirled in her cunny, throwing off flashes of delight. Kit continued to pump in and out, pushing her inexorably to a second spend. As she tumbled over the edge for the second time, her lover snatched her fingers from Bess’s channel and replaced them with her tongue.
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, LGBTQ, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads, BookBub and Twitter. Join her VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh