Page 115 of My Italian Love Affair

He’sthe one.

He’s the guy who’ll sweep my heroine off her feet.

I mean, he’lldefinitelydo a little heart-breaking along the way, but in a good way. I think.

I slap my hand down onto my notebook, pulling it toward me. The page is almost too pristine. Too much white space.

Not for long, though.

I start jotting things down - character names, possible plot twists and story arcs - as ideas flood my brain.

The dam has finally burst, and I smile at the slight ache in my hand as I scribble down as much as I possibly can before the ideas slip away.

It’s funny how inspiration hits. I’ve been walking around in a fog for weeks, thinking my story was just stalled out, like a car engine that refuses to start; and now, it’s like I’ve got a turbo boost.

I glance at the time, noting the late hour, but honestly - I don’t care. Ican’tcare.

The words are flowing, the story’s unfolding, and I’m officially lost in it.

I glance back down at the page, tapping my pen against the paper.

It’s kind of funny - how book boyfriends are so much better than real-life ones.

In fact, it’s borderlineunfair.

They’re everything you could possibly want, and more: reliable, charming, effortlessly funny and oh-so interesting. They’re the perfect kind of morally grey; and even when they’re bad, they’re redeemable enough to make it all alright. They seem to always know exactly what to say, consistently nail the perfect timing and somehow look ridiculously hot no matter what they're wearing (ornotwearing).

Real men, though? Real-lifemen?

They can’t even compare.

No wonder I’ve been single forever.

To some, it might be a sad thought; but for me, it’s a relief more than anything else. After all, it’s not as if my book boyfriends would roll their eyes when I talk about stats or try to make me feel bad for having opinions.

No, they justgetme. Always.

And though I know that it’s ridiculously late and I should really try to get some sleep, I push those logical thoughts away and relish in this addictive feeling.

This is it. This is the breakthrough I needed.

I’m moving forwards. Mycharactersare moving forwards.

And best of all, I don’t have to deal with real men to make any of it happen.

With an excited laugh, I turn my attention away from my notepad and dive into my laptop instead, already lost in the new direction I’ve found for the story. The plot twists are coming fast and furious, and I can’twaitto see where this takes me.

*

Two days later, I find myself hunched over my laptop again, fingers flying across the keys as the words pour out in a frenzy of excitement.

I’ve hit a groove with my novel. Something I haven’t felt inages.

All previous thoughts about my main character’s love interest?Ha, forget him. He’s nothing but a distant memory.

The revelation that my villain - the brooding, angry guy with a tendency to be morally grey - is actually the perfect match for my heroine has zapped a whole load of new energy into meandthe story.

Who knew I’d have a thing for bad boys who are occasionally good?

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