Saturday, 8 March 2014

Diagnosis - almost here! (With an excerpt!)

Diagnosis - the third part of the Doctor Dom series - is written, and is in the capable hands of my editors. And, all I can say is Phew. There's easy writing, and there's hard writing - Diagnosis fell in the hard writing category. I'm not sure if it was the story, or if it was that I was incredibly busy in February, or if I'm just getting ground down by the everlasting winter, but in any case - I'm really glad I'm done. 

(Note to my editors: Please, please don't make me rewrite.)

I'm the kind of writer that can't go back and reread my freshly finished story for a while, but of course, that just won't do. In addition to my editors' doing a complete read, I need to read the entire thing as well. At the end of the day, I need to be happy with it. (It's somehow easier reading it on the Kindle - at some point, I start skimming if I read on my computer.) 

Assuming my editors clear it, here's a little excerpt to tide you over. I'm aiming for a March 15th release date, if all goes well. 


I wanted to run after Lisa. Letting her go was one of the hardest things I’ve done.
But she had a sprained wrist, possibly broken. She needed to get that taken care off. And from the look on her face, my presence would not be helpful.
Fucking Andrea. She had cleverly retreated into the ER, knowing I wouldn’t follow her there, and interrupt a doctor-patient conference. For the moment, there was little I could do. But this wouldn’t be the last of it.
It was dark when I got back to my home. I’d gone for a drive, passing the hours aimlessly, my mind a total blank. I wasn’t supposed to feel this lost; this anchorless without Lisa.
Should I have told her about Andrea? I would have. But I hadn’t wanted to burden her with too much of my past, too soon. And now Andrea had taken the decision away from me.
She was there, kneeling, naked on the coffee table in my living room when I returned home. Andrea.
“Master,” she greeted me softly. Her eyes lowered, her body an image of perfect submission. But I knew, eight years later, how tainted and twisted that gift was.
“I’m not your master.” My voice was a snap; I could hear the loathing in it. “Put your clothes on.”
“Yes, master,” she said. She undoubtedly thought she was a paragon of submission, but I knew better. Andrea was spoiled and wilful, and this was just another way she showed it. She knew and I knew that there was nothing between us, hadn’t been for a very long time. Yet today, she’d interfered in my budding relationship with a woman I cared about, and then showed up to my house, and called me master. It was all about her control, under the guise of submission.
I made a mental note to change my locks as I wandered to the kitchen; poured myself a healthy shot of whiskey. She would eventually follow me when she realized I wasn’t going to play her game.


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