Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Picture this: A family dinner with my active-duty-military husband and twelve-year-old son, sitting on the back deck enjoying the gentle summer breeze. I’d prepared a meal of spicy shrimp scampi and Italian bread smothered with melted cheese, green onions and poppy seeds. After a glass (or three) of a spunky Piniot Grigio, I worked up enough courage to confess my lifelong secret. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “I want to be a writer.”
Them: “That’s great.”
Me: “Actually, I’ve been writing for a few years now.”
Them: Gentle murmurings of encouragement.
Me: “My first short story will be published next month.”
They offer a celebratory toast.
Husband: “What’s the story about?”
Me: “It’s a romance called ‘Three Little Words’.”
Silence. Stillness. Even the no-see-ums stopped humming.
Son: “You write porn?”