I’m easily bored.
I hate convention. I hate tropes, though I often find myself weaving them into my stories without conscious intent. I despise “the usual” and am always looking for a way to do things differently, some way to shake up the system and cause a little disruption in people’s expectations. This sensibility, of not doing the expected thing, or of doing the expected in an unexpected way, has been part of me for as long as I can remember.
When it comes to writing, I can’t write the same thing twice in a row. I don’t mean I don’t want to, or it doesn’t interest me. I am literally, physically incapable of it. I finish a story, and I know it’s something good. I know there’s a sequel there, and I’m the one to write it because I’m the one who lives in my characters’ heads.
But I sit down to the keyboard, and nothing happens.
You’ve done it all before, my brain says. You’re not bringing anything new to this story right now.
At this point, I have two choices: I can either force it, and it will sound and feel forced because it is, or I can set it aside and do something else, purging the new idea so I can look at the sequel with fresh eyes.
I never wanted to write erotic romance. I was urban fantasy all the way, and ride or die, that was my genre and Hell would hold Latin High Mass in a raging blizzard with compulsory attendance for every damned soul and demon before I’d get within an astronomical unit of writing romance. It was “too easy,” too safe, and besides, every single romance writer is a woman! (Yes, I’m well aware the entire last sentence is a series of myths now, thanks. But I didn’t know that then.)