Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Books are not a Guilty Pleasure, The Bachelor is.

Do I tell everyone I meet that I write books? Nope. If I wrote a genre that would not, if published the old fashioned way, be housed on the Romance shelf, might I be more apt to discuss my work?

This is going to have to change. I have enough other reasons, real or imagined, to feel down on myself.

--interesting Guardian column about the prevailing attitude toward women's fiction:

Putting different values on different genres and the people who read them. And write them. =BAD

My floor is washed, my quilt is close to done, and it's time to write some CHIC LIT!

Novel: The Prologue:

 “What’s your sign?”
      He was the polar opposite of the type of guy I would ever find interesting, and he was asking the type of question—the exact type of question—that made me want to kick him in the crotch and run for the hills. I turned away, pretending that I hadn’t heard him.
      “Come on, baby,” he persisted, rising from his bar stool and swaggering around so that he was once again in front of me. “You’re a Libra, right? I can always tell a Libra.” It was clear that he wasn’t going to fade into the woodwork.
      “And you’re here on a sortie from the nineteen-seventies,” I said, practically growling. “From the time when people last used that one as a pickup line.”
      “Ooh. A hot one! Hot and a-spice-eee! I knew it. An Aries.”
      I really hated to resort to violence.
      “Leave me alone.”
      “I’m an Aries, too,” he said. “And this morning, our horoscope said—”
      I cut him off with an elbow thrust to the diaphragm. The man doubled over, and then he struggled to get air back into his lungs. I figured that he wouldn’t be able to speak for at least as long as it would take me to finish my martini, but for safety’s sake, I tossed the drink back in one quick gulp and grabbed my purse and walked out of the cocktail car, back toward my seat. 

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