Blogging should be like Fight Club, where the first rule is you don’t talk about it.
But I’ll go ahead and talk about it, mostly to say that you should never believe me when I say I’m going to blog a lot.
Oh, I had good intentions.
But life got in the way. I’ll spare you the details of how a long-standing health mystery was finally diagnosed and instead dispense only the good news that I appear to have found a nifty job of the 40-hour-per-week variety, so that has taken much of my time. It has been a bit of an adjustment, too, being that I was used to hitting the hay whenever I felt like it and now I’m on a schedule.
I’ve also rediscovered the joys of being out among the living, namely a series of respiratory bugs the likes of which I have not had in 7 or 8 years. I’m recovering from one right now.
I still have plans to write a trashy novel under a pseudonym, slap it up on Amazon, and travel the world on the proceeds. It could happen! I might only get as far as Baltimore, but it could definitely happen.
I’m not sure what it will be about, but this much I know: I shan’t debase myself far enough to write monster erotica. A few years ago, there was much ado about the Virginia housewife who made $30,000 a month writing Yeti porn, and I’ve since learned that if you pick a beastie, any beastie, someone, somewhere, has written a series of “erotic” novels about it: minotaurs, centaurs, mermen, cyclops, kraken, gargoyles, leprechauns (that one might be about an ex of mine), orcs, dinosaurs, even aliens posing as jungle tentacle plants.
It does get me thinking, however. Clearly there’s an audience for that stuff. Someone reads it. Someone pays to read it. Maybe not much, three bucks max, but they spend real money on it, so it has some value beyond curiosity. People even review it and give it five stars. How hard can it be?
Except, see, I know myself. I know that once I start writing, I’ll get hung up on setting, character development, symbolism, and plot. I’ll want it to work, with no inconsistencies, no gaps, no place where a reader can say, “Wait, how did this character know that?” or “No, that couldn’t be possible because two chapters ago that character was somewhere else.” Then before you know it I’ll be writing a novel I’d want my name on that just happened to have a few sexy scenes. I’d be all literary and stuff, and it would take a year of research, three years of writing, another year of editing, and another year or two of overcoming crippling self-doubt before I even consider publishing it.
Even worse, people would know what I was doing throughout the process because such self-torture does not go without notice or discussion. They’d ask me how it’s going because they would want to read it, and then of course I’d never finish it because I’d hate to disappoint anyone—and that defeats the purpose entirely.
So maybe the first rule of writing trash should be the same as the first rule of blogging, which should be the same as the first rule of Fight Club.
Don’t talk about it.