The process of writing this was the best time I'd ever had. The biggest problem with writing anything is that it is like painting a picture. You paint a lovely picture of a tree and it doesn't matter how you slice it, you can talk yourself into putting another leaf on a branch. This manuscript became an obsession for eight (count 'em) eight years. How anyone writes anything more than 150 pages is remarkable. Developing chronic writing-OCD is putting it mildly for me. Everyone knows, my tenacity is legendary.
Massage school? What the hell was that about?
Just like architecture, one person can look at a building and find it beautiful and another person thinks it is the nastiest thing they've ever seen. This will happen, and my expectations other than holding the book in my hand are slim. Face it, I have a lot of balls to try this anyway. I'm not a writer.
I believe in this sort of pursuit for artistic reasons only. Writing is so intriguing to me that on a dime I could turn into a cat lady who sits with a pen in my hand in a dark corner of my attic forgetting to eat, drink, shave my legs or talk to anyone for months. Lucky I don't have to support myself.
Meow.
I called the publisher, and the book is doing very well. I think when you put the word libido in the overview it gives way to its erotic possibilities, and everyone likes sex. Even if they don't like sex, they like reading about it. I should have kept the original title, THE BIRTH OF MY LIBIDO, and I could have really made a killing, but I didn't want to scare the children off. Considering you have to be a Kardashian, be caught on a Girls Gone Wild film or kill someone to be published these days, doing it for fun may be the best plan.
I don't care if anyone reads it. I'd do it again.
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