Somehow, we were discussing my non-existent writing career. I explained to my husband that I couldn’t see anyone reading 300 pages I something I wrote especially because I couldn’t even get the man who is supposed to love me unconditionally sit and read a few paragraphs of my blog.
“I’ve read some of your blog before,” he says, “I thought it was funny. And some of it was about me.”
I turned my back to him, hiding my sly smile, “Actually, it’s a lot about you. You’re just lucky I promised myself to never blog angry.”
“No! Go ahead and blog angry. You might come up with some good stuff. Hell, if you really wanna make good money, write about sex. You could write the next…what is it…75 Sheets of something?”
In case you didn’t figure it out, Steven is not a reader. The last thing he ever read was Old Yeller in elementary school. When Old Yeller was shot, so were the chances of Steven ever picking up another book for the rest of his life. Thanks a lot, Fred Gipson!
“75 Sheets, huh?”
“You know what I mean. What is it? 30 Sheets?”
“It’s 50 SHADES, Steven. Come on.”
“Yeah, well…I’d hunt down a book written by you no matter what the title is.”
He’s so encouraging and adorable. And one great big huge liar!
But maybe I’ll do it though. Maybe I’ll do like so many have already done and write a book with a knock-off title. Look for it in the Fall of 2015, folks. “75 Sheets of the Faults in our Girls that are Gone” by Rachel Whims. And I’ll dedicate it to my husband.
For the most amazing man I know. I love ya, you big ol’ jughead!
It might just be a best-seller!