My friends and I sometimes joke about how I should write trashy romance novels. Make a million dollars writing, basically, porn for ladies.
In all seriousness, I could probably do that. I can do spicy. I have adolescent journals full of spice. The problem is, more than likely, I’d be too embarrassed to share.
When I write funny scenes in a story, you can tell, because I giggle to myself. If I wrote sexy scenes, I would probably blush. Maybe.
Why am I thinking about this? I’m not sure. I guess I might be fantasizing again, about writing books. Maybe that’s what I’ll do when (if) I retire.
I have a friend in childcare who told me, years ago, that death was her retirement plan. Yup, that sounds about right for me, too.
No, but I think really, I might someday write a memoir. My childhood was interesting enough. Either that or write stories or novels loosely based on my childhood.
I already have a short story written that I haven’t submitted anywhere, because I don’t know how to end it. The working conclusion is very weak. Very. Weak. You might even say the working conclusion is shit. Okay, you might not say that, but I might.
It’s almost like I really obviously gave up at the 11th hour. Like, here’s another big problem I just introduce, and then suddenly, I say, “Oh well, I guess that’s life,” and the story ends. What?!
It’s not that I got tired. I just don’t know where to go from there.
I don’t know where to go from here, either…
So I’m just going to go, for now.