So it just occurred to me that it is incredibly bizarre that my sole source of cash flow right now is the writing of Erotic Romance, stress on the Romance. In the job description, the publisher said the level of explicity was up to the writer, and if the sex was just implied or there was very heavy everything but that was fine, too, which means the stories have to be fairly heavy on the romance.
I haven’t felt less like writing about romance or blissful love. Except maybe when I was in a coma. I probably didn’t feel like writing about it then, either. Of course if I had the heavy painkillers now, I might actually be a little less snarly about everything.
I was wondering if, in the event of my untimely demise or unfortunate breakdown, someone might be able to chart my decline into madness/chocolate fueled rage/cheeto-binge-resulting in vehicular trauma by looking at my more recent works, including the 120,000 words I have written in the Erotic Romance category. (That’s just this contract, the other stuff I have ghosted had a much bigger frisky to romance ratio.)
What kind of madness would a verbal Rorschach test( a psychological test in which subjects’ perceptions of inkblots are recorded and then analyzed using psychological interpretation, complex algorithms, or both. Some psychologists use this test to examine a person’s personality characteristics and emotional functioning. It has been employed to detect underlying thought disorder, especially in cases where patients are reluctant to describe their thinking processes openly. The test is named after its creator, Swiss psychologist Hermann Rorschach.) indicate?
I have entrusted some of my good friends and well wishers with the sentences I have written that were so disgustingly sweet and dripping with obvious goo that I have wanted to punch myself in the face. I am fortunate that these people love me or at least want to see how much crazier I can actually get before imploding in a great big flurry of bat wings and Coke Cherry Zero fountain.
I have at least three writing projects stomping around the bat factory waiting for me to finish this contract so I can work on them. I have the outline of Fluffer’s next adventure (wherein Fluffers Reconnuters with the Squirrels.) I also have at least three steno columns full of reference materials to follow up and at least on rampage aimed at this nut-job (no offense, Squirrels)
This person has made MILLIONS by offering parenting advice publishing books on how to “Train Up A Child.”
Do a couple of searches on this nightmare. Even his own website makes him appear creepy. The objective news stories are worse.
I also have a few pithy comments aimed at the eventual demise of humanity and what it might take to survive the next uprising.
I also want to start the second season of Sons of Anarchy.
None of these things can happen until I write the last 3400 words on this Erotic Romance contract.
And We’re back