Wednesday, August 11, 2004

Erotica & Hurricane Charley

Enough already! Determined to yank myself out of this woe is me, self-pity depression over my writing. Hey, I’m a tropical storm. Full of wind. That’s me. Just a lot of hot air, lol.

Charley is out there, spinning around, expected to be a hurricane. Probably won’t hit us, but you never know. Think I’d better print out the vamp book tonight just in case the power goes out. DH was shaking his head this a.m. as he watched the latest updates. All the newscasters running around like chickens missing their heads to interview little old ladies buying canned tuna at Publix and people piling lumber into their SUV’s at Home Depot. Sometimes I think Home Depot has them on their payroll. Good exposure. You don’t know what will happen. You can get complacent. And then you remember Andrew.

Hurricane Andrew. Didn’t cause much damage for us, although my power was out for 3 days. But I went to south to help clean up. Nothing was recognizable. You couldn’t even get directions. No street signs. It was horrid. People’s homes smashed. Lives destroyed. I saw a metal washtub wrapped around a light pole. My friends and I were helping this lady sweep roof tiles out of her kitchen.. The guys went to the back yard to clean up and asked, “What do you want us to do with this satellite dish?” It was a huge dish, not the little ones you see now. The woman replied, “It’s not mine. It blew in from two blocks away.”

Hurricanes. Scary stuff.

Back to writing… I’m considering completing the erotica I had started for the fun of it. The Cinderella Rebellion. Different from anything I’ve written. Funny, very sexy. I blush as I write it. Sometimes I wonder what my mom would think of me writing an erotica. Would she roll over in her grave (urn?) She loved romance. And then I realize she’d listen to me pour my heart about how ambivalent I am about writing and say, “Write if it makes you happy.” That was my mom. And deep inside, I know she’s right. Because I love to write romance. It does give me joy. Forget getting published. Forget the stress of trying to get an agent, snag an editor’s attention. Just write. Be the Nike slogan. Just do it.

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