Nothing More Exciting Than a Shopping List

You know how when you write, and a day or two goes by and you feel as if you should be writing, so you do? That's what I'm doing.


I'm kinda the same way about knitting, but the difference with knitting is that you have "projects" that are more long-term, and in blogging, you do a lot of One Shot to Make An Impression stuff.

I suppose I should write a book, but I'm so damn stubborn that I would never bring myself to start writing a book in November because that's when everyone ELSE is writing their books!


So NOT a joiner.


And I gave it some thought, and realized that the incredible "love" story (more like a "fight" story) that's been brewing and morphing in my brain for the last, oh, 20 years or so, is a pretty great story, but also that all those people would sound awfully familiar and it would be very Jackie Collins of me to write about them and then claim it isn't about them.

Also, to paraphrase Cyrano, I keep finding myself the hero. Which brings me to my point (you were starting to wonder if I had one, weren't you...?)

Many moons ago, as I was writing the story in my head, and putting some of it on paper, the lead character was like this full-blown expansion of all of the things I personally wanted to be, only, she was infinitely more troubled than me, crazy rich with family money, and did some rather extreme things, which was what made her more interesting than I was. But she was 20-odd years old, just like I was at the time, and she and her soul mate were in such strong denial about their feelings for each other (she, because how could she ever love someone who was such an elitist snob and he, because how could he ever love someone who was such a mess...) that all they did all day was pretend not to care, even though it was all they could do not to tackle each other every time the other was near.

Which is EXACTLY what was going on, for real, in my life at the time.

I guess I'm not very creative.


Fast forward almost 20 years, and I've settled into a fictional love story in which both characters are kind of a mess, but not so much of a mess that the other can't handle it, and neither of them are incredibly rich or extreme, and they're both in their 40's.

Yawn...


The opening scene in the original story has the heroin stumbling, drunk, through the grounds of her massive estate to the site of her father's grave, where she proceeds to have a one-sided discussion with him about how damn difficult things have become for her, what with being incredibly wealthy and famous and drunk all the time, not to mention being hopelessly in love with someone who was being a total jerk about it, as if she could help falling in love with him. Bastard. Then, she passes out in the snow and is discovered by some grounds keeper and/or bodyguard who is supposed to be keeping an eye on her because she is prone to do stupid shit like that. He carries her back to the mansion to sleep it off, and the next day, her hangover is interrupted by her father's brother, who is also insanely wealthy, and famous, but less extreme, and he is scolding her for doing stupid shit like that.

It's a damn good scene--don't any of you steal that, because I would know...


The new opening scene has something to do with eyes blinking open and the heroin needing coffee. Subsequent scenes involve juggling work and kids' schedules with a completely non-existent social life.


Yawn...


So you see my dilemma?


Yeah, yeah...it doesn't have to have anything to do with me or my life, and that's why they call it a "story" after all...I could probably write that character better now than I could then, anyway, even though I know that her so-called "soulmate" is really only the lust-muffin d'jour. I think I'm close enough to the pain to pull it off.

And the man would still have to be the source of all frustration to make it work, which I think I could also pull off. Hmmm...

To all of who are starting, finishing, or working on your books in November, best of luck to you all! If I do get all excited and start writing this thing again, don't count on any excepts...the part in the story where the heroin stuffs the barrel of a handgun into the cheek of the reporter hiding in her garage really has little more going for it than shock value, and I don't want to be a spoiler.