You can take a leap off that cliff, burn that bridge, suck it up and grow a set ... and do it knowing there's no safety net. That's what it takes to become a writer. You find solitary isn't a state of existence, it's a state of mind. Or you do what I do - you rent apartments in your head, to quirky, misguided characters who stock cheap wine and your favorite chips and always have time for a visit. And sometimes - sometimes - they sublet those apartments and when you knock on the door, this stranger in sweats and bare feet says 'yo' and waves you in. And if you are very lucky this stranger will have a story to tell.

I found myself a Muse. His name is Rowan and he's a bit of a randy gadabout but he's a hunk and keeps me on the twisty winding road when the path leads to matters of the heart and 'scenes of affection'. He goes walkabout with Raoul but I seldom begrudge his indulgences for his whisperings and naughty asides are fodder for my next story.

In case you haven't guessed by now - I write romance, I write erotica.