Ghostwriting

You know that feeling you get when your editor sends your manuscript back to you and the tasks ahead seem impossible? Or how about when you’ve outlined this story to death, but the blank page in front of you is mocking you, demeaning you, insisting you can’t do this. What do you do when you’ve gotten 30,000 words into your manuscript and you hit a roadblock? I can help with all of that. And if you want to be a writer, but you don’t necessarily want to be writing, I can help with that, too. (Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. And I certainly won’t judge you.)

Below, I’ve answered a few questions you might have. If you have others, please reach out to me.

Why would I need a ghostwriter?

  • To knock out a first draft, getting the hardest part out of the way for you.
  • To fill in the gaps when you’re stuck.
  • To implement an editor’s suggestions when you’re unable to think of how you might do so.
  • In many cases, a ghostwriter is like an editor on speed… they take the next step in editing by implementing the suggestions themselves. This isn’t standard practice when you hire an editor, though, so if you expect them to do so, ask them upfront if they do.

Isn’t that the same as editing?

  • Ghostwriting is not the same as editing, although the two are similar. An editor who does the actual rewriting and revisions she suggested has stepped into the role of ghostwriter. Few are willing to do so, and even fewer do so without additional compensation. (See Editors 101: What An Editor Will and Will Not Do For Your Writing)

How does it work?

Like any service provided to you, different freelancers or organizations will have different approaches. I can only offer you my approach.

• You’ll contact me with the terms of your project (word count and any other specifics), and I’ll draft a quote that will include a rough timeline and cost estimate.

• We’ll negotiate the terms of the project. When we’re in agreement, I’ll send you a contract and invoice.

• Once the contract is signed and a deposit is made, I’ll write, you’ll relax.

• I’ll send you a first draft for review. Take your time. If you have revisions you’d like me to make, be specific. Make all of your “high-level” requests at this stage.

• With your revision requests in hand, I’ll revise the document and send you a final draft. While this is considered the final draft, if you have a minor change you’d like me to make, you’ll have 30 days after the project’s completion to request such revisions.

NOTE: For the purpose of revision requests, the definition of a minor revision is any change that can be made using Word’s find and replace function without compromising the coherence of the work in its entirety.

• Full payment is due the same day as the project’s completion. Half is due upfront.

How much does it cost?

Again, different strokes for different folks. My rates are as follows:
If the chart below doesn’t cover what you need, ask me for a quote.

 

Something to Talk About pricing

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Motivation

He had to know he was torturing her. Every morning Chloe showed up for work, and every single time Jess was still dressed in his pajama bottoms and nothing else. With those dark, pleading eyes, he’d coerce her into making his coffee. Like she was his maid! She wouldn’t have done it, but she needed coffee to function. But she drew the line at cleaning up while he showered, even though her fingers itched to pick up the clothes strewn about his living room which doubled as an office. Writers.

Standing in his kitchen, she waited until she was sure he’d stepped under the warm spray of the shower. Then she turned on the hot water to rinse and fill the pot. When he yelped, she grinned broadly. Oh, the little things.

While the coffee brewed, Chloe stacked envelopes and planners and random pieces of paper into a pile and off of her desk. Well, if one could call it a desk. Their ‘desks’ were actually TV tray tables in permanent residence before the couch. At least her seat was comfy.

She left his mess on the couch beside her where he’d either have to sit on it or move it himself.

Jess swept out of the bathroom with a grand gesture just as Chloe returned to the kitchen. She almost ran right into him, but side-stepped just in time to avoid a collision. Good thing, too. That towel around his waist wouldn’t have survived the scuffle.

“Dude, what’s with the fancy entrance? I almost took you out.”

“Which certainly would have ruined the effect. Coffee ready?”

“Clothes. Now. I’ll get the coffee.”

Great, now she was offering to fix his cup for him. He didn’t even have to ask! And he had the nerve to leave with a cheeky grin. She had told him, months ago, that being his assistant didn’t mean she was his slave. Chloe had made it a point to clearly define what he could reasonably expect from her, and where she drew the line. Coffee had somehow managed to find a grey area.

Coffee was worth the hit her pride took. Besides, she’d gotten good at playing this little game.

She brought their cups over to the desks and sat down to organize her notes. He was two-thirds of the way into his next novel. The deadline was looming, but motivation was non-existent. This final stretch was always the hardest for Jess, and the most challenging time for Chloe to work with him.

“Private Jess Hazelton, reporting for duty, sir!” The man could give a woman heat stroke, even with clothes on. The long sleeved, cream colored cardigan clung to every muscle in his arms and chest. Dark jeans hung low on his slim hips. With little effort, she could easily flip the hem of his shirt up and expose the dark trail leading into denim.

Chloe gave herself a mental shake.

“Just sit down.” She cleared her throat, cursing internally. “We’ve got work to do, and you will not distract me.”

“I know,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “That’s why I love you. You are relentless.”

“Laptop.”

“Yes, dear.”

She didn’t normally have to walk him through each and every step, but the procrastination was so much worse the deeper into each book he got.

Once the laptop was open and booting up, she went over the main conflict with him again. They chatted and Chloe let the enthusiasm build naturally. When he was once again pumped about the project, she grabbed his coffee cup to refill it and left him to his work.

She set a timer for 20 minutes, then opened up her own tablet to schedule his social media posts for the day.

Five minutes in and she noticed a distinct silence. No typing going on next to her.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“I was thinking… you know what I need?”

“You need to write. In 20-minute sprints. Come on, Jess, you can do this.”

“I know, but I need motivation.”

“I’m your motivation.”

“And damn good motivation, at that. Or, at least, you could be.”

“Excuse me? I’m damn good at what I do. And I’m not doing any more than what I already do for you. Not for the same pay, anyway.” And probably not even for more pay. She was not his housekeeper and would not become that.

“Hear me out.”

“I will, in—twelve minutes.”

“But—”

“No, back to work. We can talk in twelve minutes. Put a pin in it.”

Not surprisingly, he obeyed. Jess needed a firm hand, and Chloe knew it. When their twenty minutes was up, the timer went off.

“Okay, Jess. You’ve got ten minutes.”

“I need rewards at the end of these sprints.”

Hmmm … not a bad idea. “Other than coffee and progress?”

“Yes, other than coffee and progress.”

“I’m listening.”

“A kiss, to start with.”

“A … what?”

That cheeky grin again. “You heard me.” He leaned closer, grabbing the front of her shirt and pulling her gently toward him. He stopped just shy of actually kissing her. “Are you going to make me beg? I’ve been such a good boy. I wrote almost 1,000 words with that sprint. Give me a little something to celebrate?”

He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. His lips hovered above hers. Moved down to graze her jaw, whisper against her throat. In her ear. “Chloe, please. I need you.”

Jess pulled back to look at her. Those dark, pleading eyes would be the death of her.

She grabbed his face and pulled him in for a kiss. He was surprisingly gentle, and she tried to match that tenderness. This is for him. But her fire was lit, and there was no holding back. Chloe reached for the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling it to tilt his head backward while she climbed into his lap. When he gasped in surprise, she dove into the kiss for all she was worth.

She drank greedily, pressing against him, demanding he give her everything he had to give. His hands made their way down, cupping her ass and pulling her even tighter to him. Her hands worked under his shirt, up toward the thick patch of hair on his chest. Soft curls tickled her fingertips. She found the nubs hidden within and teased them with the pads of her thumbs until Jess bucked against her.

When the 10-minute timer alarm went off, they both jerked away from the kiss. Her hands were still on his chest, and his were still on her ass.

She quickly climbed off of him. They had to get this under control. Get back on track. Would he even want to do that again? She took his tender kiss and turned it into something else entirely, after all. He might be kind of scared of her now. “You’ve got twenty minutes, mister, and I want to see 1.5k. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She grabbed their cups again and headed to the kitchen.

Softly, so quietly she barely heard him, he said, “I can’t wait to see what 1.5k gets me.”

 

 

 

The Unnamed Mistress

Muscled male model roped in traditional japanesse shibari

Image licensed via Fotolia. 

She draws closer to me, pressing her breasts into my back, reaching around my waist to rake her long, red nails up my thighs. The small, curly hairs between her legs tickle my ass cheeks. I dare not jerk away, lest I displease my new mistress.

I say new, but I mean most recent. I’ve been dominated before, but not by her. And never like this.

The first time I saw her was at Chaotic Cupid, a club where anyone and everyone could hook up anonymously and part ways amicably. Nothing was out of bounds there, as long as all parties agreed ahead of time. That was the one rule Mistress Galatea did enforce: no hookups permitted on the grounds without a signed contract in place. If you left the club with anyone, that was on you. There was no alcohol involved, nothing that would impair one’s judgment; and everyone was screened at the door. I was actually high the first time I’d tried to get in. No dice.

I guess that’s two rules G actually insists everyone follows. You have to sign a contract and you have to be capable of doing so.

Anyway, the first time I spotted my current mistress was about three weeks ago, best guess. She was all long legs and dark hair. What little clothing she wore had been strategically sewn together to cover only her nipples and the inverted v where her thighs met. Even with the majority of her flesh exposed, she walked with confidence and grace.

At the time, I figured she had to be a dominatrix, but I was uncertain because of her friendly demeanor. Most of the dom’s I’d met were intimidating, to say the least. But not her. She had a smile and a friendly word for everyone. People responded to her with genuine smiles, greeted her with warm hugs. The way she’d cup a cheek here, kiss a forehead there, one might even go so far as to call her motherly, if one would go so far as to think of their mother wearing only tiny scraps of black leather and lace.

I had already chosen my dom for the evening. Rather, she’d chosen me and I’d agreed to the match. She provided her demands to one of G’s secretaries. Distracted by the raven beauty across the room, I gave the secretary my safe word and barely spared at glance at Carla’s terms. I’d had her before; she knew my limits. Besides, if she did something I didn’t want her to, that’s what the safe word was for.

I turned my attention away from a woman I’ve come to think of as Raven just long enough to sign the contract. When I looked up again, I could have sworn she looked pleased. One brow raised in a high, perfectly manicured arch and her smile instantly turned darker. Her gaze held mine for a moment that stretched out … Until Carla grabbed my hand and pulled me away. I glanced back over my shoulder, but Raven had disappeared into the crowd.

Carla and I made our way around the orgy in the center of the room, stopping here and there to admire the curve of a breast, the soft glistening cum pooled in and around various orifices. I didn’t see Raven again as we made the rounds.

That night, with Carla straddling my face, putting my tongue to good use, Raven’s countenance dissipated within my mind. When Carla finally allowed me to penetrate her silken depths, my only thoughts were of her.

She wore me out that night. I fell asleep on a chaise lounge on a second floor, west wing balcony. When I woke, sometime in the early morning hours, I was being dragged away, a dark cloth of some sort draped over my head and shoulders.

Although I’d been trained more times than I could recount, I struggled to control my rising panic. Surely Mistress Galatea wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me? G always had our best interests at heart. Perhaps Carla was enacting some sort of kidnapping fantasy.

I relaxed my limbs, pretending to be unconscious as I’d often done. The use of chlorophorm, real chlorophorm, wasn’t allowed; we’d often had to get creative with some of our fantasies. She’d never dragged me off-site before, though. The fantasy always began with me waking from having been drugged.

She was taking things to a whole new level, and that was absolutely fine with me.

I played along until we got to the elevator and she dropped my arms suddenly, my head dropping hard against the cold, marble floor. Stars swam in my otherwise dark vision, but scattered when the elevator’s bell dinged.

Briefly, I thought to offer to walk instead of having her haul me away, but the doors opened and Mistress Galatea spoke; a rare experience for the Chaotic Cupid’s patrons.

“I see you’ve found a new pet.”

“Oh, I sure hope so.” That was not Carla’s voice; hers was lighter and without the southern twang. “From the looks of him, Carla rode him hard and put him up wet.” She paused slightly and I held my breath, hoping against hope this was my raven, come to take me away and own me. “But we’ll see what’s left when I get him to the dungeon.”

At the word dungeon, my pulse sped up. I opened my mouth to object, but hesitated. If it was Raven, I didn’t want to disappoint her. I might miss out on the opportunity to please such an unusual dom. And I had to know what pleased her.

So I held my peace and listened as they exchanged pleasantries, bidding each other a pleasant morning. Raven’s real name never tumbled from G’s lips.

 

A lubricated finger slides into my ass and I jolt awake. I’d drifted off to sleep remembering that first night.

As it turns out, the woman who kidnapped me three weeks ago was Raven. Rather, I know her as Raven. She refuses to give me her name; insists I must earn the privilege. And I will.

With one hand gripping my hip, she uses her finger to tease my asshole. I’d never agreed to anal; I was relatively vanilla per the Chaotic Cupid’s norm. But if I use my safe word, she’ll stop. Part of me doesn’t want her to stop because it might displease her. Part of me doesn’t want her to stop because I find the sensation of her dainty digit inside me incredibly appealing. Not a single ounce of me actually does want her to stop, and she only put the tip in.

After the initial shock, a moment of doubt at the perceived violation, I relaxed. The best thing one can do in any new situation is relax. As soon as I do, her finger sinks in a bit deeper.

I gasp and flex, a kneejerk reaction, and the muscles in my rear pull her finger in the rest of the way. I moan aloud. This is nothing like I’ve ever felt before. “Thank you, Mistress Raven.”

Her throaty chuckle makes my dick jump with anticipation.

She rather enjoys taking my full length as deeply into her throat as she can and holding it there while she laughs or moans, effectively training me to respond physically to her vocalizations.

“Thought you might like that, darlin’.”

She pulls her finger out and leaves me standing there, arms outstretched above me, shackled to the ceiling via a length of chain.

“If you’re good, I’ll give you something you’ll really enjoy.”

Raven paces around to stand before me, reaching up for the knotted rope that hangs from the same beam from which my chain dangles.

Her muscles, already shimmering with sweat from the previous hours of training me, strain with the effort of lifting herself. She climbs, hand over hand, up one knot, then two, and wraps her legs around my waist.

“Please, mistress, let me do this for you.”

“Patience,” she snaps at me, leaning back and rocking her hips forward at the same time. She pulls away until my dick springs up, reaching toward the warmth at her core, then gently eases onto the tip. With infinitesimal, torturous motions, she uses the head of my cock to stroke the inner walls of her pussy.

I do my best to remain still, but orgasm is within my grasp. I have to hold out as long as I can. For her.

Perhaps she senses my nearing climax. Or maybe she simply wants to prolong her own pleasure. Hanging from the ceiling as she is, holding onto her position only by that rope and her thighs clenched around my waist, she’s got to be close. But she hasn’t even used me to penetrate herself completely. She uses the rope to pull almost all of the way off of me and, using nothing more than her eyes, commands me to hold still as a statue.

Raven keeps us posed like that; her arms pulling against her own weight; the tip of my dick just barely inside her slippery cunt. If I so much as twitch, I’ll slide right out. That’s the last thing I want.

I wait, holding my breath, for instruction.

Finally, as her arms start shaking, she commands me: “Slowly but firmly push into me as far as you can.”

I gently let out my breath and ease my full length into her. My dick is so hard it’s pulsing. She clenches around my girth, then releases. Slowly, at first, she repeats the tightening and relaxing of her inner muscles. Again.

And again.

Then faster, she clenches and releases. Clench and release. Clench. Release. Faster. Faster and faster and faster.

“Stop!” We’re both trembling, and I don’t know about her but I’m on the verge of tears.

“Please,” it’s the only word I can work out, and that only comes on a whisper.

Using the rope and what has to be the last of her strength by now, she pulls off of me. Away from me. And I very nearly cry out.

When she drops heavily to the floor, I do.

“Raven!”

She’s breathing, but otherwise still and quiet.

Glancing up at my shackles, I look for any kind of release lever. There’s nothing. I can’t get off of the chain to help her. I knew it before I looked; I’ve tried numerous times before. After the first day it became clear I was getting more than I’d signed up for when she chained me up. I tried to escape a few times. Obviously, to no avail.

But even in those first days she brought me here, when everything was uncertain, I didn’t want to be released from these chains more than I do now.

Not only am I unable to help her, if she needs it, but I’ll be stuck here until she comes around. She has never left me chained for more than a couple of hours, and only long enough to take her pleasure. I don’t know how long a person can stay in this position, and I’m not eager to find out.

She groans, lifting up on one elbow and raising a hand to her head.

“Shit, too far.”

Shaking her head, Raven takes her time to return to standing.

I want to tell her to hurry and release me, but I know better. Even when she pushes herself beyond her own limits, she will not let me call any shots. As warm and generous as she is, there is no mistaking who the dominant one is here.

She sways on her feet and I bite my tongue to hold my silence as she sits on the bench along the far wall. With a wave of her hand in the direction of my shackles, she says, “Take those off and help me to bed.”

“Take… what do you mean?”

Raven leans forward and drops her head into her palms. “There’s a release button inside a hole. You feel where the wide part touches your wrist?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Poke around for the hole. You’re pretty good at finding them. Try.”

Though I can hear her smile in her words, she keeps her head down.

Running my finger around the shackle on the opposite hand, I finally encounter a little hole. I’ll have to use my pinky, and even that’s iffy.

I stick the tip in and work it around. It feels hollow until I turn the soft pad of my finger just right, and then I can feel smooth metal within the hole: the release.

I press it gently and the shackle slips open. I quickly release myself from the other and take two long strides to the bench against the wall.

Kneeling before Raven, I await my orders.

“Carry me to bed.” She motions to the only door in the room with one hand, but quickly brings it back to her forehead. “Turn right at the door then go straight down the hall. Last door on the left is my room.”

“The door’s not locked?”

She shakes her head no.

For just a moment, a wild bit of defiance pulls my lips into a grin. I’m helpless to stop it. This is why I need a firm hand.

“What if I escape instead?”

She snorts and finally raises her head to look me in the eye. Her strength has returned to her when I need it most.

“If you wanted to escape, you’d have done so long ago. That doorknob doesn’t even have a lock.”

I want to argue, to assure her that I do, in fact, want to escape. At least, during those first few days when I was so uncertain I did. But looking at the door now, I see what’s obvious. There are no latches or sliding chains or bolts of any kind on the door. Just a plain, round knob. It doesn’t even have one of those little buttons you depress to lock it.

I could have left any time I wanted.

She stands, recovered enough to walk, and slaps my ass on her way out, stopping at the door to cast a saucy glance over her shoulder.

“Well? You coming?”

 

Down the hall from the dungeon in which I’d spent the last few weeks training, I turn and pause before the doorway of the last door on the left. Raven’s room. With a deep breath for fortitude, I follow her in.

The room has only the basic furnishings, but what is there is lavishly decorated. Lamps with thick bronze bases and silver gilded shades sit on elaborately carved nightstands to either side of a four post canopy bed. Sheer mahogany panels cascade from above, flowing all the way down to pool on the hardwood floor.

Raven pulls a panel aside and secures it to one of the foot posts.

“Shut the door.”

I turn around to do so and spot the only other piece of furniture in the room: a vanity that matches the carvings of the nightstands and bed posts.

After I close the door, noting the lack of a lock on this one as well, I freeze. I feel like I’ve reached some sort of plateau. Why has she brought me here? Is she letting me go?

In a very real way, it feels like that’s exactly what’s happening. I’m free to leave; she’s made that perfectly clear. The thought doesn’t seem to bother her at all.

Spinning around to face her, to question her though I know damn well it may displease her, I’m struck dumb as I watch her remove what few scraps of clothing covered her. The crotchless panties, now soaking wet, are the first to go. Then the lacy, barely-there bra drops to the floor. It’s the first time I’ve actually seen her nipples.

Is she done with me? Have I nothing left to offer her?

My heart unexpectedly shatters. I can’t move. Speak. Think. Even breathing is difficult.

But I’ll do her bidding, even if it kills me to walk away.

“What would you have me do now, Mistress?”

She lies back on piles of thick pillows and drapes a long, graceful arm across her eyes.

“Come here. Lay beside me. Just give me a moment.”

I can’t help myself, my defiant edge is sharper than ever in my grief.

“After all this, that’s all you want: a moment?”

She snorts again.

“My God, you are thick sometimes.”

“My apologies, Mistress Raven,” I sneer as I join her in the bed.

“Tiffany.”

For the second time tonight, I’m struck dumb.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Tiffany.”

Such a small thing, but it’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received. She isn’t done with me at all. Wonder of all wonders, I’ve finally earned my place at her side.

Musical Daydreams: Replay

“Wanna put you on repeat, play you everywhere I go.” – Zendaya

Replay (YouTube Link)

I’ll tell you a little “tame” secret about me: I serve a home cooked supper almost every night. I know, not exactly salacious, but I save the juicy bits for the blog. 😉 So anyway, while I’m cooking supper, I’ve usually got my headphones in and Spotify playing. This song is on a couple of my playlists. I love it. It gives me energy and gets me moving. And now I have an idea for a sexy housewife scene/story.

I do so love this writing thing, and exploring my musical preferences is really opening some new doorways in my mind. Do you find inspiration in music?

And, of course, the lyrics via Google Play for Replay.

Bonus Song: Zendaya – Neverland (Incredible video to watch. She can sing, but she can dance like you wouldn’t believe. Check it out. You’re welcome.)

Musical Daydreams: Stressed Out

“Out of student loans and tree-house homes we all would take the latter.” – Twenty One Pilots

Stressed Out (YouTube Link)

Okay, I have been obsessed with this song since the first time I heard it. And my obsession hasn’t faded in the least. It’s got a catchy hook, a smooth voice, and bass that thumps real nice. But more than that, it’s got a message; one I think many of us can relate to. It’s about making time for the little things in life. It’s about remembering that there’s more to life than just working and paying bills. It’s a reminder to live your life while you can. Yes, you need to make money. But there’s no reason to stop dreaming. (I certainly haven’t. 😉 )

As per my usual, you can find the lyrics to Stressed out on Google Play.

Musical Daydreams: Middle

“I didn’t mean to put you through this. I can tell we’re gonna sweep this under the carpet.” – DJ Snake

Middle (YouTube Link)

This is one of those songs that, when it comes on, I just can’t help but move around a little. It makes me bob my head, snap my fingers, and just generally gives me a little happy-boost. Sometimes, especially on a Sunday night when Monday’s glaring at me from around the corner, that little mood-boost is all I need.

And, of course, lyrics are available at Google Play for Middle.

First Born Son (Part Two)

Hey, you’re back! Excellent. Okay, so to catch you up to speed, Ryan was not able to convince his parents to accept that I’m a part of his life. So they cut him off, financially. He says it doesn’t matter. We make decent money, we’ll be okay without them. But when I ordered take out last night, he flipped out. I mean, he made a huge deal.

Ryan and I don’t really fight. We argue sometimes, but it never gets, like … bad. But last night, he yelled at me for ordering pizza when our monthly income just got cut in half. Said we needed to start thinking about a budget.

I threw the box of pizza at him. Wasted a whole freaking pizza.

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Untitled Teaser: Pt. 2 (Work in Progress)

If you haven’t read part one yet, you can find it here: Untitled Teaser (Work in Progress).


David

Krissy. Cute name for a cute girl. I say girl, but I guess that’s unfair. She looks young, though. Barely legal. But if she’s enrolled in college, she’s at least eighteen. Fair game.

I hadn’t intended to bring her to my truck. But when she mentioned “light play,” I couldn’t resist.

I can handle light play. I’m up for much more than that, but I’ll start slow, for her. The way she stutters when she talks about sex, she can’t be very experienced. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she’s a virgin.

There’s only one downside to that, though: she won’t want to let me go for a long time. She’ll get sick of me eventually. They always do. And I swore I’d never again fall for a younger woman. Hell, I wish I could find a cougar. I’m only thirty-two. Where are the forty-year-old hotties in this damn town?

There’s that one chick, the Pharmacology professor. What’s her name? Regina, I think. Rebecca, maybe? Something with an R. She’s attractive, older. I just don’t feel what I felt when I laid eyes on Krissy.

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Musical Daydreams: Pillowtalk

“It’s our paradise, and it’s our war zone.” – Zayn

Pillowtalk (YouTube link)

I keep hearing this song on the radio and, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what this guy was saying. I have strange hearing issues. Not hard of hearing, exactly, but I have a hard time understanding people. Anyway, I really liked the song. The more I heard it, the more I liked it. (Repetition doing its job.) So I googled the lyrics and found they really resonated with me. Thought I’d leave myself a sort of note on this blog by way of journal entry so that when I’m revisiting which stories I wrote and when, I can reflect on the music I was listening to at the time as well.

I live in cycles; I want to find my patterns.

Full lyrics for Pillowtalk can be found at Google Play.

 

First Born Son

People are weird. I swear, sometimes I think they’re actually psychos who live in a fantasy version of the real world. Ryan’s parents are like that. He’s twenty-five years old and still depends on them for everything. He’s the first born son, the one who gets a double share of inheritance. The one whose monthly stipend is twice as much as his brother’s and sisters’. Who does that anymore? Rich people, I guess. I wouldn’t know.

They’ve been depositing money into his checking account since he was sixteen, and building his trust fund since his birth. But now they’ve threatened to cut him off financially unless he marries the woman they chose, not me. I was never under Katherine or Davis Cooper’s consideration. In fact, it was always just the opposite.

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