They put me to sleep today, just for a half hour or so. It’s something I do because I have to. It’s called a colonoscopy, and if you are 50 and haven’t had one, well, shame on you. They’re fun! Okay, so the results today were fun. I’m clear for a year, which is the best I’ve done in a long time.
It was a very weird few days though. I rushed home from work on my anniversary yesterday to open an incredible gift from my husband. He has a passion for good handbags. I don’t delve too deeply into that one, I just take them when offered. We had our celebration the night before.
So, once the agony of preparation began (I won’t get explicate), and the worst was over, I turned to a book. An old Janet Evanovich book. This one, in fact, recently rereleased because she can get away with that now.
Let me tell you, this book rescued me. I thought I was starting to hate romances. I forgot that there are books out there in which the POV changes every other paragraph and it’s not disruptive because the writer is good. Sure, Janet got better, snappier, quirkier. But this is funny and heartwarming and just a good romance. Why did I start to hate romances? Why did I forget the huge pile of Nora and E. Lowell in my closet?
Because I got swept into the world of urban, dark, weres and vamps, blah blah blah blah freaking blah. So much of what I’ve picked up in the last few years is so dreary. And I read this stuff because it’s what I’ve aspired to write. But it’s not what I enjoy. Anyway, I won’t go down that tired path again.
I did, however, remember that the reason these fine ladies have long, solid careers is because they are above trends, or they set them. They aren’t chasing a moving target. They are writing what they want to write, and they’re doing it with skill and grace.
Cut to RT (at least what I hear–the positive and negative, nicely summarized recently at Dear Author). I do NOT belong there. I don’t think I belong at EC at all. I don’t like oiled male strippers, and I don’t want anyone touching me, and I just don’t, you know? I know saying things like that is the kiss of death, but if you’ve already decided to become a vegetarian, insulting the butcher isn’t really going to ruin your life, you know?
I love my writer friends, especially the Divas, who can wear lampshades on their heads and drink to all hours and get tattoos and stuff. I love them. But I’m not one of them. The Divas tolerate me, however, and I’m really grateful for that.
I will never be a Nora or a Janet Evanovich. But those folks are my models of writing, behavior, and humor.
So as I went into the colonoscopy center this morning, a woman who was also waiting was reading the same book. Naughty Neighbor. I asked her what she thought. Funny, she said. I really like this. I asked her if she read any erotic romances, and she replied that she wasn’t really sure what those are. But she liked the cute pig on the cover, which is actually why I bought the book.
I was woken from my nap today by three rather stunned looking maintenance guys who were there to replace our apartment’s air conditioners. They had knocked and rang, but I was out cold. I was in bed, they were all beefy and mechanical. In my semi-doped state, all I could say was not to let the cat out. I stumbled out of bed, and curled up on the couch while they did their manly stuff. With my book. And one of the guys pointed to “Naughty Neighbor” and said his wife read that book. “She reads all that stuff.” I wanted to ask more, but I didn’t think he’d get it. And it might sound a bit like a come on.
And that’s my two days.