Two Things About Me and (maybe) a Sneak Peek

So, two weird things about me. 1) I’m an introvert who is very capable of convincing everyone around me that I’m not. My social battery runs out fast, and 99 percent of the time, I’d rather be home with a cup of Earl Grey or bougie iced coffee, than second-guessing whether I looked/sounded/acted weird in public.

But, also, 2) I crave meaningful contact. When I ask “How are you?” I mean I’d love for you to tell me how you’re actually doing.

Writing is a necessarily solitary activity. I’m one of those people who visualizes books like a movie in my mind. Mine also include actor voices and a soundtrack. When I’m writing a story, I’m basically sitting here and telling you about the extremely detailed and consciously-guided vivid hallucinations I’m experiencing, lol. But as solitary as it is, at the end of the day, meaningful connections are what make it matter.

Onto the sneak peek… LOVE WHAT’S LEFT uses the amnesia trope. I tried to fight it. I planned to write this book as a cute marriage of convenience, but my brain wouldn’t let me. It kept saying, but, wait, what if she forgot about that fateful day when Gabriel accidentally said too much in SAY YOU WILL?! What if she has no idea everything it took to get where they are seven years later? What if they’re married… maybe… but we have to unwind the knots? What if we learn their story with her? What if he falls first and harder, but she falls twice?

As soon as I accepted the premise, so many scenes poured into my head that my biggest struggle right now is being able to physically write fast enough to keep up with my vivid daydreams. (Spoiler, I can’t!)

Image includes Collage of photos of a white couple in their late twenties/early thirties. Text:

LOVE WHAT’S LEFT

“What is your name?”

“Gabriel McRae.” His answer is barely audible.

I nod, but I know I won’t remember. His name is already gone, like I’ve deliberately greased it up so it won’t stick.

But there’s something I do know. I found it in the tattoos on his arms. In muscle memory that tells me more than my mind is ready for. “My name,” I say slowly, “Is Sydney Walsh McRae. You never would have stopped looking for me.”

He doesn’t look away from my eyes. “Never.”