Stole this from Stephanie Klein’s blog (her memoir, Straight Up And Dirty, is a little too SATC-inspired, right down to the martini drinking, curly headed heroine, but I folded page corners down over several quips I wished I’d have written):
“I have been living this...book, but I haven’t started the proposal. What is that about? I worry that there’s not enough of a story, a depth, a deeper discovery, a reveal. I don’t want to write a book that’s just funny for funny sake. There has to be depth to it, self-discovery.”
Well smack my ass and call me Judy. No don't. Sometimes people mistake my name for Judy and I despise that, worst ever from the fireman I sleep with who, when I called (yep I called, first bad sign) the next day addressed me as "Judy."
But I digress.
And in fairness it was back when I was pretty bad in bed.
Really at the end and the beginning of the day I want that too, to write a book of this story I'm living. And have it mean something. A readable, relatable tale about more than embracing single in a world of double, later in life sexual abandonment and cheeky asides. There’s grit in truth, sympathy in shame and vicarious lust in reinvention. Essayists share memories and pithy observations of life around them, stories others feel and relate to and fold page corners down over. I want that too because I can. I have an absolutely winning idea for a novel floating in my head, but fiction writing comes harder. My dialogue feels unnatural, stifled and kind of Flinstone. But it would sell a million copies (paperback) based on the back cover summary alone. Every woman over 40 who grew up loving Duran Duran would buy a copy.
Wednesday I paid off my car; last week I handed over cash for a new battery and tires for winter (and the next 32K miles). My lone credit card has one last payment due. Refied the mortgage to an obscenely livable monthly amount (and could walk with $30K-ish sticking out of my back pocket should I sell). I’ve been setting myself up so things like money don’t motivate (or even be part of the equation of) the next move I make. Whether that move is into the manfriends house or a single loft in the grittier heart of Denver (rented, less root and more wiggle) or a bungalow on the hip side of the highway, near coffee shops with names you’ve never heard of. Or moving on from a decade of corporate gigging.
Stole this from Navin R. Johnson (as played by Steve Marin in The Jerk):
"Things are going to start happening to me now."