I lean back, groaning. “I didn’t exactly mean to say that out loud. But what’s up is that I’m stuck! I need to find a willing subject to let me do some research with him.”
“Nope,” Daysha says as she points at me and Jasmine. “We’re sprinting. We can discuss Poppy’s coochie meow-meow’s lack of petting in six minutes.”
No one argues, simply sticking their heads back down. Daysha’s just that sort of super-focused person . . . but I’m left tapping my keyboard aimlessly. This is the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced! I can’t even write a decent scene to get my own juices flowing.
I know that beyond my lack of sex, the deeper reason I can’t write is that I’ve heaped so much pressure on myself by taking that advance contract from Bluebird. I’ve got to deliver a knockout book because my entire career is riding on it.
Between the stress and my lack of bathing, I’ve broken out in hives several times over the past week, and my sleep cycle’s ten kinds of fucked up. Suddenly, just to twist the thumbscrews a bit more, my mind comes up with another fresh worry. What if I go to this writer’s luncheon with my idol and a bunch of other authors, and they laugh me out of the place?
“Time,” Daysha calls, interrupting my self-induced stress dialogue. “Now, back to what’s really important, Poppy’s lack of cooter-loving friends.”
“Well, here’s the problem,” I tell them, turning my laptop around, showing them the past few pages of drivel I’ve written since I last deleted everything. “I’m struggling.”
Becca squints and flops back in her chair when she realizes the scene I’m on. “Oh, my God, PULEAAASE tell me you’re not STILL stuck on them boinking?”
Jasmine grunts and runs her hands into her blonde curls in exasperation with me. “I’ve written a space battle, a time warp, and a G-type star literally making our heroine explode in orgasm in the time you’ve been pecking at your keyboard!”
“Easy for you to say!” I growl, suddenly defensive. “You don’t have a six-figure contract riding on your story being good enough for a possible Netflix option, an agent reminding you at every turn that expectations are going to be astronomically high for revenue, fans emailing you to tell you how they want the story to go, and characters that sound like robots saying shit like ‘put your big dick inside me so I can feel you breed me, baby.’”
Jasmine rolls her eyes skyward. “Yes, yes, remind us how we’re all peons and you’re the chosen one with a big fat paycheck on the way.”
“I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry—”
Jasmine grins and boops her nose, adjusting her glasses that turn her from sex bomb back into girl next door cute when she wants. “Girl, I’m teasing, but please tell me you’re kidding about that dialogue, right? That’s bad, Poppy.”
Aleria clears her throat pointedly. “I could make it work,” she offers with a shrug, “in the right situation. A succubus, maybe? But only constructive criticism, Jasmine. We all agreed.”
Jasmine tilts her head as if to say ‘did you hear what she wrote? Someone’s gotta tell her.’ I get it, but right now, I’ll take any help—constructive or not. “What do you suggest, Aleria?”
“Well, you know I have a focus candle that could probably help you find an anchor in the characters,” she says, turning to the large satchel she always carries with her. “Some sage and hemp could—”
“You are not burning that around me,” Daysha says. “Besides, I really don’t think that’s going to help Poppy at this point.”
“Not only that . . . the shit don’t work,” Jasmine mutters under her breath.
“Excuse me?” Aleria asks, losing her calm center in favor of a bit of neck swirling.
Daysha snaps her fingers, cutting off the debate-slash-sermon in its tracks. “Focus, people.”
Aleria mutters, “That’s what I’m trying to help Poppy do.”
Daysha ignores her and focuses on me. “Pops, you said you need to have sex. So do it. Pick up someone hot, give him a fake name, and do the dirty in all sorts of ridiculous positions, with toys and props and whatever else you think your heroine or hero might like. Test it out. Consider it research.”
“Ooh, fun!” Becca says, nodding. “You know, I heard of a great new app for that, and—”
“Just pick up some rando?” Aleria asks, horrified and shaking her head. “No way. It would desecrate Poppy’s female magic! You can’t