Hook up...

So I was driving from the gym to work and I was listening to Zinc FM Cairns. A young woman had rung in as she was trying to track down the bloke she had a ‘sleep-over’ – one night stand with. Apparently she met him in one of the local bars here and things happened and they hooked up and I’m assuming, due to her on air level of enthusiasm, he must have been good to sleep over with…ah, sleep…can’t get enough of it. The problem was this woman did not remember the bloke’s name and she wanted to hook up with him again. In fact, other than being introduced for a nano-second and then imbibing copious amounts of the old fermented grape, she couldn’t remember his name. Not even when they were on their sleep over. She kept expecting he would repeat it. I can’t see how. It’s not like he was going to say “My name is Wayne. Do I need a condom? Get your clothes off. Did I mention my name was Wayne? Great tits. My name is Wayne."

Anyway I liked her. She made no apologies for the sleep over or wanting to meet up with him again. My point is, and I do have one, there are people who are critical of erotic romance saying that it’s not realistic and those things don’t happen and if they do women who have sleep-overs are sluts. Here’s the thing – yes, erotic romance is about sex and reality and it’s in your face and if you don’t like it in your face then put your face somewhere else. And yes, sex happens. As for women being sluts? What do we call the ‘Waynes’ of the world? Isn’t there some proverb about sin and casting stones?

Hook ups happen. No apologies.

Do you have it in puce?

So, I got a new sofa and thought I’d sell the old recliner chairs. They’re in excellent nick but I just don’t need them. It’s part of my live uncomplicated approach to life. This would work splendidly if I was an uncomplicated person. But I’m a work in progress along with being just plain swell. Anyway, I decided to place a free ad in the local paper and sell them. At first, no one called. I was told to be patient that this was the tropics and no one rushed. At lunchtime the calls came in. What colour are the chairs? Dark red? I wanted puce. Are they leather? No. I wanted leather. They’re not leather. That’s a shame because I wanted leather. Build a bridge. Another said I have a 2 hour threshold that I can spend time seeing the chairs in. You need to be home now. My response? Ah, no. Then the ever popular you live all the way out there? Yes, I live the terrible 15-20 drive from the centre of Cairns. And the requests and question went on. Red chairs. After work. No, I don’t take magic beans. Yes, you’ll probably need a cut lunch and 17 litres of water and bus money tied into a knot in your hankie to get to my place. People. Odd.

Writer cults…

When you start doing the writing thing you have no bloody idea what you’re doing and you join various groups of writers to discuss the fact you have no bloody idea what you’re doing . It seems like a good idea at the time. But then, one day you realize these people in these writer cults really just want to tell you how fabulous their books are, what tricks their ‘precious’ little dog did while the writer in question was scouring the best seller lists and pouting because they were sure they sold at least 1000 books because all their family, friends and the fellow writer cult patrons swore blind they bought a copy. Then they ask did you buy a copy. No? Why not? Don’t you like vampire-lesbian-nun-demon-biker-loner-angst filled-nihilist-horror-paranormal-sweet-erotic-romance-with a twist of lime? No? Well why are you in this writer cult listening to my words of wisdom? I expect adoration damn you. No chocolate brownie recipe for you!

It’s my recommendation at that stage you have to get out of the writer cult. No, really, it may seem a hard thing to do but if you don’t you become one of those people who bombard unsuspecting readers/other writers with cutesy writer crap. When that happens, there’s no turning back. You’re one of them.

Writer cults – thanks but no thanks. Mother said don’t talk to strangers.