Almost. Done. Grading. Final. Revisions. I see a light at the end of that tunnel! I do!
Meanwhile, I had one of my classic stupid experiences last night. I was up at the restaurant where I used to work, having a glass of wine, when the bartender asked me what kind of books I write. Whenever I answer this kind of question I always end up sounding like an idiot. I don’t know why: it’s a curse.
I said, “Well, basically they’re books marketed to teenage girls, but I don’t think of them necessarily as YA books.” After this I got a blank look, because the average normal person has no idea what YA means, and why would they? For all they know I’m talking in weird writer code. Anyway, so then I said, “I mean, they’re sort of Judy Blume-esque” and then I kind of cringed, thinking, who am I to compare myself to Judy Blume? God. (Hello, internal monologue. Wish I could say I’ve missed ya, but….) So then she says, “Oh, sort of like Sweet Valley High? A series?” and I said, “No, they’re all just, well, you know, separate novels. About girls. And um, high school.”
And that was that. Almost five books published and even I can’t say what they are. So just went back to staring at the margaritas swirling around in the machine beside me, wondering why I’m able to write three hundred pages worth of a story but yet can’t come up with one sentence to explain what that story is, exactly.
I know I’m rambling. It’s the end of the semester, I’m kind of burnt, I apologize. Mix that in with the anticipation/nervousness of the new book coming out, and it’s a deadly combination. Maybe I just need to go shopping. Or go slam a couple of mochas. Or both: also a deadly combination.
I guess the point is, and always has been, that I don’t want my books to fall under any one category, because to me that instantly cuts them off from every other thing they could possibly be. It does bug me when I go to the B &N website and under one of my books one of the subjects listed is Children. What is that all about?
Enough, enough. I will burden you no more with my angst. It’s so very unattractive, after all. Chalk it up to lack of sleep and reading too many short stories in a two-day period. That can do even the best of us in, right?