Finishing the first draft and writing those words “the end” is an intensely thrilling thing. Brief and evanescent, for sure. Micro-brief really, but still just a little bit orgasmic in its way.

Can something be a “little bit orgasmic”? Millions of dissatisfied housewives are probably nodding their heads and saying “are you kidding me?” and “that’s anything that doesn’t involve a serious auditioning session with the finger puppets – on my own”.

I am not saying that the completion of the first draft of the third book of my trilogy is big bang knock it out of the park utopian birth of the Universe type of orgasmic. More a teeny little momentary fuzzy “did that actually happen?” sort of mini-orgasm. I shall call it a gasm. And I am really going to have to work hard on the edit and rewrite if I am to graduate to moregasms.

There is quite a lot of sex in my books. Not excessive, considering there are over 500 chapters of text. It’s quirky sex – it lurks in the edges and lingers in the corners. What it is doing in science fiction I don’t know. I’m blaming the characters.


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