It’s been a while since the last post. Let me be more honest. It’s been a long while. It’s been so long I wasn’t sure I could still remember my password to generate a new post. Obviously that worked out, or you wouldn’t be reading this.
What have I been up to? I’ve been reading and writing. I learned to slash as many gerunds and adverbs as I could. Or at least recognize them. I won a few contests, wrote a few book reviews, and, horror of horrors, played Candy Crush.
Yes, it’s true. I’m on level 221. A few times I’ve been stuck on a level for months and months. I could have purchased boosters and escaped candy level jail, but refused to. The stubbornness of my childhood will always be with me.
While the clock ticked, I scuffled with myself about the genre best suited for my voice and my interests. Interests besides Candy Crush.
I came up with a few things. The young adult and middle grade niche remained on the list. Humor popped out as something consistent in my stories. Then a surprise waltzed onto the list. For those of you who know me well, you may want to sit down for the big reveal.
Are you sitting down?
There. I’ve said it. I’ve written it. And announced it to my small world.
Let me qualify. I’m not as keen on the romance of a Nora Roberts. I prefer the outlandish caricature chick lit of a Sophie Kinsella. It’s all her fault anyway.
There I was, innocently scrolling through audible for something of interest. I wanted something fresh. I came across Confessions of a Shopaholic. I don’t know how I got there. Perhaps my Muse mysteriously stepped in while I was in a trance. I clicked to the book’s description and was intrigued. In a few more clicks it downloaded to my “device,” and I listened. Becky Bloomwood and I bonded.
So here I am with an entire college degree in English literature where I learned to deconstruct classics and write dissertations on them hooked on chick lit.
Perhaps I could write a novel entitled Confessions of a Lit Major and give Kinsella a run for her money.