I’ve been sitting at my desk (ha! it’s the dining table, I don’t have a desk!) all day editing my ‘manuscript’ after wanting to tear it into teeny tiny pieces last night. I got a headache from too much scowling about it.
I’m busting my butt here. I could’ve spent my day off watching trashy TV or finishing Allegiant (why is it taking me sooooo loooong to finish?) or reading one of about a gazillion and six awesome books on my book shelf that keep on coming through the letter box from Amazon faster than I can finish reading Allegiant. I could’ve cleaned the bathroom. I could have had a really productive day on Pinterest. Or vacuumed.
But instead I slaved away at my words. Trying to make this awesome story that lives in my head come out and live on the white glowing pages of my computer screen. Time travel, nuns, historical facts, gay kids, straight kids, 1983 kids, more historical facts, facts about deserts, it’s not easy you guys and it’s not like it’ll all be worth it because it’ll go mass production paperback. It’ll be a cult classic at best, or I’ll just post it on here for free. I’ll probably never make a dollar from it.
I poured my heart and soul out of my body through my hands and into the computer all day long. Which was great, it was really fun. But then, while on an email break I look at an email from a literary agency, just a general mail out, what they’re up to, what books have been published etc. So I click on the latest book they’ve published. It’s a chic-lit. Not something I usually choose to read myself. It’s got that whole ‘you’ll never be complete without a man and the perfect pair of Jimmy Choos’ thing going on and that’s not really my scene. I’m more feminist in half price Converse. Chic-lit is so far away from anything I want to write. Ever. But I am going to write a chic-lit one day because I quite like the idea of writing a good one. Anyway, so I click on this book and it takes me to Amazon and so I read the first page and I was like – really?
I don’t ever want to like, slam another author’s work, because hell I know how hard it is. And I totally get that everyone has different tastes and likes different books and for God’s sake I’m writing a teen fiction about time travelling to the 80’s! But this book could not have been worse. It was like reading paragraphs of all the stuff I’ve just edited out of my own writing because it was so meaningless, nothingness, extra words, bad dialogue, filler, just people talking about nothing, long descriptions about nothing.
I should seriously write chic-lit. I could have one done in about an hour.
I shouldn’t blame publishers, I should blame the chics reading chic-lit. Put your chic-lit down ladies! If you want real romance and adventure pick up some YA.