Last night V– and I went to one of her favorite watering spots, an Italian restaurant called Gino’s, where we bellied up to the bar and ordered our dinner. (Gino’s does a mean Caesar salad — just the right amount of anchovy…) This was our holiday outing, and we drank too much. In part, I blame the good-looking bartender because he gifted us an after-dinner port. This, after much wine and a Spanish coffee. We had fun.
But today, being bleary, I’m also highly distractable. My eyes itch because I didn’t sleep well. I’m just glad that Mysterious Mr. M once again got me out of the house for a writing session at the Fireside Coffee Lodge. I bet I’d be back in bed right this second if not.
Just now, my distractability called out for me to write a quick blog entry to get a whiny something out of my system. After this post, I promise I’ll get back to the new scene I’m writing. It goes like this: Mr. M brought me a book he thought I might get a kick out of reading. I flipped this novel’s pages to check the publisher, the acknowledgments, and the author bio. The novelist looks all of 25 years old. Also, looks like this might be her first novel.
This novel is a chick-lit (think: wry and trendy-like youthful female voice) succubus murder mystery. Succubus! Meaning: lots of sex. Mr. M said this was a trashy novel. This got me thinking about Chelsea Cain’s cheesy thriller, Heartsick, with its sexy female serial murderer.
Here’s the whine: Must I write a chick-lit succubus murder mystery to get a novel published? Or a sexy female serial murderer thriller? Do I have to stretch the genres in that particular way? Do I have to follow the latest literary trends? Do I have to have sex scenes, which in my opinion are the most boring things to read?
Do I have-ta?
Okay, done whining. Now I can concentrate on the current scene, which I’m enjoying, actually. No sex, but there’s a death in the backstory and currently a teenager who only ever wanted to meet his biological mother. I like this youth. His name is Toby. So now I write.