Writing in first person...

You know to be honest; I found writing in first person for the first time to be easy. I cannot tell you why. I just had this insane drive to write this story, which I did in about two days. Sometimes it takes a month. And sometimes it only takes me days to write about 11,000 words. The character(s) dictate how I write.

Here is a sampling from A Sexual Spark which is the precursor to The Brotherhood of Spark series coming out in print next year. The legend of the Sparkers will be revealed in A Sexual Spark,

Unedited excerpt from A Sexual Spark by Skylar Sinclair coming in 2007 from Dark Eden Press.

“Oh…shit,” I muttered under my breath. Something wicked just walked through the door, and I knew like any woman—even a mutt like me—knew deep down in her soul when a predator neared. A hush fell over the dimly lit bar and the hairs on my neck rose and my body tightened as if a heat wave suddenly blasted down it.

Every nerve in my body awakened screaming: big, bad, and dangerous had entered the bar, yet I couldn’t stop myself from swinging around on my heels, letting my eyes sweep through the hazy of smoke and shadows until they landed on his large form.

He had to be over seven feet tall, owning the space as he walked. The crowded bar separated for him like Moses parting the Red Sea. I wasn’t the only one that sensed the predator in him. The man was nasty on two well-sculpted legs that flexed and bunched with ground eating strides he took to the only empty booth near my station, then easily slid that big frame of his into it, dominating the space around him. He reminded me of a deadly panther—powerful and sleek.

He wore dark, exotic wraparound sunglasses and dressed all in black. His leather pants indecent as hell, leaving nowhere for me to look but at the bundle prominently cover by luscious, black, shiny leather. I wasn’t sure what size shitkickers he wore, but damn that man had the biggest feet I’d ever seen. Ripping my eyes off his crotch, I made my way up over the boundaries most would call a chest, yet on this dangerous creature, it seemed more like mounds of muscle that stacked forming very wide and impressive shoulders, twisting and rippling beneath his leather jacket as he moved. The kind of shoulders a girl could wrap her legs around and ride face for days.

His hair could only be described as a thick messy shag of pitch-black that teased around his face, brushing just past his broad shoulders. It had that “I just got fucked look” that only someone like him could wear and still look wickedly handsome. Now, if I rolled out of bed with that kind of hair and did nothing with it, I bet the first person who saw me would start barking. Not really smart, but I always say some people have shit for brains, too. Hey, I might be half human; still the other half was wolf, which made me a bitch to begin with, so I wouldn’t push it.