July 23, 2008
When I meet someone new, I tend to proceed slowly in revealing my work. You know, I don't just whip out the pornographer business cards right away. See, I'm in publishing—my backlist of non-porn books is more extensive than my smut—so I can hide behind my day job when I want to.
But last week, I tried to take a friendship to the next level. This woman knows I'm a writer, but she's never expressed much interest in what I write. After debating a bit, I told her that I recently landed a book deal with Harlequin. No response. Zero. Zip. Then today she called me up to say, "I'm not surprised that you're going to be published, but I am shocked at what you're writing."
And I thought to myself as I mentally crossed her off my list of potential closer friends, "That shocked you? Hell, I could give you a fucking heart attack."
I don't have anything else to say. I just wanted to put it out there.
P.S. More guilty pleasures? I've indulged in several of mine today: I ordered six pairs of fishnets, bought red licorice ropes, and painted my nails cobalt while watching one of my favorite movies.