Or…some more rambling on a Sunday evening.
Dear Diary (I will call you Francis from now on, I think),
I just got back from Avalon, a beach in New Jersey. People there are rich and it’s a lovely spot. I saw a few women on the beach reading romances. For one of those deja vu but forwards not backwards time frozen thingey moments, everything stopped.
You see, Dear Friend, I’ve been spending gobs of time in a place you can’t really see from here. There have been odd fights, some very strange personal dramas, some boring old topics rehashed…all adding up to the epublishing world equivalent of Paris Hilton being back in jail or Anna’s baby and her real (he is real now, right?) father what’s his name.
So, back to the women on the beach reading their Nora Roberts and whomever. Really, really immersed, oiled up, looking a little leathery. Probably smoked for a long time but have given it up. Sun bleached hair (on top of the dye)–like me. A little round of hip, but still looking fine in the one-piece black suit–fine for their years.
I sit with my husband on a blanket (we don’t do the chair, umberalla, cooler thing) like hippies, not even in suits, but in shorts and t-shirts. My husband notices me looking at the women and smiles. I know what he’s going to say. “You wish they were reading one of your books.”
“No, hun. I was thinking that I forgot that people read books.”
“What? You write books. And you have above-average intelligence. And looks.” He winks, setting me up for some middle-aged action later in the evening.
I forgot that people read books. I got lost in people writing books. I’m doing it again, Francis, with this post. But maybe if a reader stumbles upon this, she or he will forgive me.
Back to Nora. I saw on some thread that she posted she didn’t have time for myspace and blogging, etc. Too busy writing books. I sniffed, of course, thinking “you don’t have to worry about finding ten more new readers, do you, lady” (sniff, she’s my hero, how could she be so cold?).
But on the beach in Avalon, watching those women, it really hit me. Who am I writing for? Me, of course. For reviewers? For my colleagues at Romance Divas? For scary bloggers who might poke fun at me? For contests judges or even some currently nonexistent agent (and their nonexistent request)?
No, it’s those two middle aged, bleach blondes who can probably afford to sit on that beach all week while I go back to the day job tomorrow. I forgot about them somehow. I’m glad I went away this weekend, because I got to step back through Alice’s looking glass, and it’s much clearer on this side.