The book isn’t quite finished

It’s been a BIG while, really.

And I’d like to make a categorically sweeping statement of insight which will make you sit in your chair and think, “Good God! She’s got it sussed. Rushing over to buy the ebook post haste!”

Who knew you had that British accent? But the book isn’t finished yet. Actually not even started yet either–except for the line about how an authentic look behind the emotional curtains in an unhappy marriage can be a real picnic ender. (I’m at peace with the failed marriage, and the line was really fantastic. I must track that down!!) It will probably wind up being about a middle aged woman who re-writes her life, while making peace with the term middle age. I like to push myself.

The other inspired one was about a lady whose annoying teenage neighbor woke her up as he took a short cut through her yard. She rushed outside to shoo him away just in time to realize that she was butt-ass-naked. “Hey Lady, nice tits!” he says as she growls her way back inside. That lady has to practice the multi-layered coffee drink she orders from the very cute barrista that somehow always gets her off her game. (It was conceived over a decade ago and I think he’d have to turn out gay.) Single tall skinny white chocolate mocha. Single tall skinny white chocolate mocha. Probably to make her really awkward, the Adonis at the coffee bar will be mixed race and make some reference to her order. She’ll undoubtedly snort in such a way that it triggers her nasal congestion untowardly. And take up yoga. Or get a body piercing. At which point the neighbor boy will undoubtedly reappear.

That makes a story about gawkiness (she’d have to grow up at some point) or midlife bildungsroman, (the only term besides complementary schizmogenesis to emerge from  college without coming directly from Cliff’s Notes. It might not be used correctly. Don’t judge me.)

There’s always porn, though I’d have to use a pseudonym. Maybe a How To book on masturbation. Given the recent craze about 50 Shades, it’s pretty clear there’s a market. And it’s not like I lack practice. Reading. I mean I did read them all. So if a tawdry tale of bodaciousness appears written by someone not with my name and I am suddenly wealthy beyond imagining (and I present in a consistently flushed and relaxed state), my dear readers will have the missing piece. (Does one ‘come out’ as it were to promote a book on masturbation? How does one explain that to the children who will eventually scratch their eyes when they finally put the topic and its author together as they figure out how they got through college without loans? You know you’d read it.)

Hey, don’t judge me.


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