I thought, since I have just now finished the excrutiating editing process of finalizing my book, that I would celebrate by sharing a juicy little exceprt with you.

Here it is. This is a point shortly after the two have met, and Rhys is bringing Amy back home:

Rhys walked Amy up the steps of her apartment building, and took note of her name on the mailbox. Apartmnet 2D, Amy Bennett.

She looked at him in the soft lamplight of the building's entrance. God, he really was a beautiful man. Oh, not in any classic sense of the word. He was too large and hard core for that. His shaggy dark hair was still slightly damp, and fell to just past the nape of his neck. His eyes, though they seemed to shimmer strangely like silver in the light, held a softness, a tenderness, that was out of place with his strength and the careful control he held over himself.

She realized then that this evening could have ended a lot differently than with the two of them standing at her front door. He had taken care tonight to see that she wasn't hurt from her insane mad dash into danger, and while she was sure that she had hampered him more than she had helped, he hadn’t lost it on her. If she determined nothing else from the events of this evening, she was confident in concluding that he would never have hurt her.

"Thanks for bringing me home."

"No problem," Rhys replied. He seemed to want to say something more, but didn't.

Amy stared at his mouth, wondering if he would kiss her again. She really wanted him to kiss her again. Deciding this was her night to flirt with danger, she didn’t wait for it, and instead went up on her toes, and smoothed her lips over his.

Jeez, he was so tall, he should be playing for the NBA.

Amy pressed her mouth against him lightly, cautiously, then gasped as he groaned and wrapped his arms around her. He deepened her soft kiss into something more, something carnal and hot, and she tumbled into it, lost in her growing desire.

Her arms clutching him, Rhys backed Amy up until she was pressed against the wall of the building. Amy reveled in the feeling of the sharp stone at her back, and his smooth, hard strength pressing into her from the front. One muscled thigh moved between her legs, pressed up against her, and she gasped as her insides melted in response. His lips were traveling down the smooth column of her neck, along her jaw, licking the sensitive spot at the base of her shoulder blade, while his hand moved to cup one breast, kneading and shaping it to fit his palm, the other tangling itself in her hair, which tumbled loosely over her shoulders.

Rhys was on fire. He had never felt this before, this all-consuming need. He wanted Amy with a desperation that was overriding all the good intentions that he had started out with, wanted to take her as hard and as deep as he possibly could. He had never let his body rule him that way. But right now, he wanted--he needed--to imprint himself on her body, mark her, dominate her. He wanted to possess her and protect her at the same time, to hold himself inside her for an eternity.

It didn’t help his self-control to know that she was just as hot for him. Her raspy little moans and the scent of her excitement beckoned to him like a siren’s summons. It would take nothing for Rhys to overcome her lingering inhibitions, convince her to take him into her bed, and once there, he wouldn't let her out of it again for days.

In fact, what better way to keep an eye on her. He could keep her constantly at his side, and perhaps gain some insight into the source of his dreams.

Whoa, he thought. Constant proximity for women always meant closeness and sharing. No way did he want that complication. He had a job to do that Amy could never understand, and a life that she could never be part of...a dangerous fucked-up life at that. He wouldn’t allow any human to become a part of that, especially not Amy, no matter how much he was drawn to her serene strength and frank humour. She would compromise his very existence if he allowed himself to be distracted by those expressive eyes and lush body.

It would be better for them both if he simply let her retreat into her apartment alone. She would never see him again, and he would move into the future as a whisper of nothingness, a ghost, as he had always been to humans.

But first, he wanted to commit the taste of her to memory.

I feel like I've been running a 10k marathon, and so far I'm not sure whether I'm ahead or behind.

But last night was one of those banner moments, one of those moments you remember for the rest of your life--because I finished the synopsis for my book!

Huh, you're not impressed? I'm ecstatic. I feel like I just passed the last leg of the marathon, now I'm into my seventh km, and the home stretch is upon me.

I can remember the agony of starting the book. When you first set your cushy running shoes on that path and push forward. It's hard going, but then you get into a bit of a zone, and the pavement starts zooming by. Until you get a stitch in your side, or in this case, WRITER'S BLOCK. Oh, the horror of writer's block. It might take a while, and you may have to sit out of the race for a few moments to catch your breath, but then you can start moving again, and that is a good feeling too, knowing that you've conquered the block.

When the book was actually written, I had a glass of wine that day. But oddly enough, despite feeling a little bit of a glow, I wasn't jumping up and down ecstatic. Perhaps it was because I knew that I had only reached the half-way point in my trek. Getting the book ready for publishing was going to take a lot more time, and I'd be huffing and puffing pretty hard by the end of it.

Now that editing is well on its way, I had diverted my attention to the matter of publishing materials. If a person wants to send a manuscript to a publisher for review, there are a lot of RULES. I couldn't believe all the rules. You need to query first, which means you send a short letter of introduction. And depending on the publishing company, they will either respond to request a synopsis of your book, along with a copy of the first few chapters, or they will not. Sometimes, a publisher wants the chapters with your query, sometimes they want a synopsis that is five pages, sometimes eight. Then of course, some won't even look at your query unless it is submitted by an agent.

Oh My God, I thought. How do I get an agent?

We'll just leave that one alone for now.

But finally, the query letters are written, the synopsis is drafted, and this is when I start doing the football happy dance--oh wait, my analogy was running, right? Oh well, never mind.

I am reminded today of relationships...past, future, lasting and fleeting.

I have had occasion recently to reconnect with a number of old friends from high school--eeek. The horrors of remembering a time when I wore faded blue jeans that came up to my shin, bright neon colours, and, if I happened to have actually attended school that day...a uniform. (I know!!)

But more than that, I remember laughter, drama, friendships that seemed they would last forever, life that was glowing and fresh, and a sense of future, of purpose that was wide open and infinite with possibility. It's funny how it all seemed so common and everyday back then, while now I look on it with a profound sense of wonder. Wonder that I was ever so young, that I had so many dreams. Wonder that I ever looked that bad, and wonder that I even made it out alive.

Some of those friends are still with me today. Others, as I mentioned, I have had a chance to reconnect with, and I enjoy learning about their lives and families. I am amazed to find so many people doing exactly what they wanted to do back when we were young and foolish, and others who have gone so far above and beyond their own wildest dreams. Either way, it's always good to see that they're having fun, and living life to the fullest.

I think about how my own goals have changed since I was young. I used to write as if my soul were pouring out on the paper. Poetry, stories, anything to put words down. I have come to determine that the creativity flows best and easiest when you're young. But then I remember wanting to be a doctor, a lawyer, or something equally glamorous. I think that was mainly a result of watching too much tv, though. When I finally made it through high school, and went on to university, and then to college, my goals changed again. And again...and again. Until I was back to the same place I had started--with a love of writing, and trying to see where it would take me.

I think our first loves are often our best. We can't always get that feeling back after it's drifted away, and in most cases, it's best that way. But sometimes our younger selves can teachour older selves a few things. About how to appreciate friendships, follow dreams, and enjoy life.