12K words into my latest story and my muse flies in and drops a load in my subconscious. Which would be fine ... IF IT RELATED TO THE FRICKIN STORY I WAS WRITING.
So now I'm off chasing another story while my muse watches and laughs. Bitch!
To give her due credit, it is an absolute crack up, although I don't know whether you folks will enjoy it.
Ever since I was little (okay, ever since I was YOUNG) I have loved Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories. I love the style (Watson's journal / memoirs) and the stories and the humour. I read Holmes fanfic and watch all the cheesy spin offs on TV.
As faultless as Holmes's intellect is in all other areas, all are agreed that he is clueless on the subject of women and love.
Whilst Holmes cannot be seduced, what would happen if a case depended on a working knowledge of seduction and sex? Might this not be an opportunity for poor Watson to finally shine?
The story itself is trite, cheesy erotica. What makes it fun is the by-play between Holmes and Watson and the juxtaposition of our starchy heros in a world of heaving bosoms and carnal desires.
I know, I know. You hate it already.
Sorry, but I can't help myself. Its getting written. Unless my muse drops another load on me ...