I wake up each night at midnight when the alarm clock goes off. My clock has the handy feature of two alarm settings. Somehow I have managed to set the secondary alarm for midnight and have no idea how to reset it. I turn the alarm off and go back to sleep. The alarm goes off again at six. I hit the snooze button. The alarm goes off again ten minutes later. I hit the snooze button. This vicious dance often happens for an hour or longer.
Finally I launch myself out of bed and sprint for the bathroom. I am now late, as usual. In the bathroom I brush my teeth, sometimes shave, often shower, and always strike poses in front of the mirror. My reflection flexes with me and silently urges me to get back to the gym. I push my belly out as far as I can and realize I would not make a sexy pregnant woman.
Breakfast is most often a granola bar or a handful of almonds or peanut butter on saltines, or maybe I dump the remnants of a bag of potato chips down my throat. There are always eggs in the house but my ambition to whip up such culinary delights is often lacking. I eat in the kitchen in my towel so as not to mess up my fancy school clothes.
Back in my bedroom I try to remember which dress shirt I wore last, the blue one or the purple one. I should label them, one for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and the other for Tuesday and Thursday. I have a third shirt but it’s been missing for weeks. I really should buy another couple of dress shirts.
I walk to school and write in my mind scenes for whichever novel I am working on. At school I hit the bank of computers in the student lounge area. The three computers on the end of the row are almost always vacant. On one the space bar doesn’t work unless you apply Herculean like pressure, on another the “E” key is temperamental, and the third I can’t recall the malfunction but am always pleasantly surprised when I find it. I choose the computer with the semi working space bar. I send out my transmissions.
An acquaintance of mine has a friend who believes kelp farming is the future and is trying to grow kelp in his backyard in large steel drums. He also once explained to me the concept of a flying house and the tax advantages living in such a house would provide. This guy has found thousands of like minded individuals on the internet. I suppose their end goal is a community of self sufficient kelp farmers who fly town to town selling seaweed.
The point of the last paragraph is this. There is a community for everyone and I spend half an hour or so a day sending out smoke signals to my community. I haven’t found them yet, but I hope they find me soon. I’m really kinda looking for the Wizard of Oz, the guy behind the curtain, the Great Architect of the Universe, Osiris, God, call him what you will. I’m looking for fellow seekers of the light. I’m not sure if that sounded profound or crazy.
In class I am the oldest student there. I’m proud I’ve gone back to school after a twenty year hiatus. I try not to let the thought that my classmates weren’t even born when I graduated high school get me down. I feel a little sorry that they never knew the joy of a Commodore 64 or a cassette player, and that they likely don’t know who Mrs. Garrett or Evel Knievel is.
When I finish school I go home and have a nap. My naps are legendary and can often last five or six hours. Then I write, and go to bed early because I know the alarm will wake me at midnight. When I have a chance I eat vast quantities of fast food. I often eat only one meal a day but eat such a staggering amount of calories I am sustained like a bear in hibernation.
Maybe more about writing? I try to write at least 2,000 words a day and usually succeed. I absolutely love writing; it is my favorite part of the day. At school I fantasize about my stories and often have to force myself to concentrate on the lecture. There is absolutely nothing like the thrill I find in creating, in forming words into pictures on the page. For me, it is the best part of any day. And that is pretty much a day in my life.
Rachel: A rock star. Her albums go multi-platinum overnight. She was sixteen when she had her first hit, more than ten years ago. She grew up under the scrutiny of the media. It is time for her to break out from under the shadow of her infamous Svengali ex-boyfriend/manager. She tires of the good girl image and wants to change, get dirtier, sexier. Enter Brandon.
Brandon: A playboy artist. His paintings demand almost unheard of prices at auction, but it’s his escapades away from the easel that garner the biggest headlines. He is a favorite of the tabloids and the paparazzi. A manipulator, he has used the publicity to drive up the prices of his work. If the tabloids are to be believed, he has slept his way through Hollywood’s A-list. The very definition of bad boy. He tires of the game.
Both incredibly damaged, can they heal each other or will they part lonelier and more broken than when they first came together?
This is a rock star erotic romance written by a man with a male point of view. This is how the guy is really thinking and feeling.
Icarus Rising is the first of a trilogy, but it stands as a novel by itself.
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Genre – Erotic Romance
Rating – R
Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.