2003-06-13

I'm better now. I'm renewed in my vow of a year of singlehood and success. I think this is the year. I have a feeling. But I also had a feeling about "The Others" and that show tanked. Maybe I shouldn't have feelings. Anyway, I'm on chapter 4 of my dirty, naughty, secret romance novel. I wonder if it's good enough for publishing. The plot is, of course, pretty trite. There's no such thing as a new and riveting plot in those books. The only new thing I can bring is how I go about it, lots of smoldering sexual tension, and the funny.

I think I'm mostly writing it because I can. See, whenever I'm depressed about my love life (which is a lot- a real lot), I read these bits of fluff. I particularly like it when the heroine isn't all pretty, pretty princess-like. It makes me feel there's hope for me. It cheers me up. Then there's that feeling of deep, deep shame. I could be reading Dickens or Elliot or Stephen King. But I'm reading Catherine Coulter. Why? It's fluff and I like the boost I get out of it.

I was trying to explain this to Evil T, but she doesn't get it. I think she looks down on romance novels. I think she looks down on romance. I look up to Evil T in that way. She doesn't need it. I do.

Anyway, with my year happening, I think the dirty secret novel will give me some nice fantasy time. It's great to escape in a book, but I think it's better to create your own escape. I do it all the time. I have countless and detailed meet-cutes and witty dialogues with hot men I don't or do know (and various celebrities) in my mind. I'm very obsessed with romance. I think that's why I'm getting rid of the possibilities for a year. I get my hopes up too bad. Just want to see what happens if I just say no to the whole thing. It's an experiment of sorts.