Idle Hands

I’m going to go crazy, I just know it.

The update isn’t until Wednesday, but this is sort of the way to idle time away.

Yesterday and today are off days, as in I’m not supposed to be working, just relaxing and doing whatever the heck I want.

I played Sims while watching television and knitting a blanket. Then partway through the day I remembered an addendum I wanted to add to my year long marathon.

Write a book, read a book. This isn’t an enforceable rule because I may not always have time. And these books are not to be done by big publishers, or what is sitting on my shelf. Technically it is work, so I shouldn’t do the next one on my time off.

Anyhow, read a novella that was #2 or so in the same category as Contract Taken and I didn’t like it.

I’m not a pornography gal. I don’t want to jump to the part where penis enters vagina and I am not a fan of cock, pussy, fuck, or making childish noises during sex.

That’s how the author described them, not me.

But five hundred or so reviews, 4k on Goodreads, it must be popular. I’m still cursing about it, though. It’s not for me and I would not suggest it to friends.

Except Beth, I made her read it because misery loves company. She’s now cursing it and me.

Anyhow, I feel like I’m going to go mad and it’s only day two of my time off. The problem with today is that I work the day job today.

Day job puts me in work mode. Why? Well, this is our busiest time of year. Makes me want to throw my hands in the air and quit because people are narcissistic and self-absorbed.

I guess that just lights a fire under me. But I don’t think I could ever write a book that gets five hundred reviews on Amazon, let alone one that has so many good ones.

Lined his cock up with her entrance, what is he, an airplane?

Guh.

I went searching for another, but couldn’t bring myself to read another so soon. I want something to clean the feel of it off me.

Harlequin makes me choke on sappy and cliche, but that makes me choke on… well, on cock and not in a fun way. There has got to be a happy medium out there that’s not my own writing.

I mean, I know the books exist as I’ve read a couple but finding them is hard. And I know there’s readers for that but they’re the minority.

They’re the ones who remain seated during a strip show as the others stand and howl like banshees, grabbing and groping the dancers.

Do you know how awkward and disgusted you can feel when you’re one of those ones sitting? To be called a prude because you don’t want to grab a stranger by his ass or cock?

I guess the long and the short of it is: if I want erotica, I’ll have to write it for myself.

Or pray it falls into my lap.