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?
Chick
lit.
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.