FIFTY SHADES OF WRITER'S BLOCK

So there I sat at my computer last night, drawing a literary blank, looking like the last wild-haired child on wash day, gnawing on a grilled chicken wing between long, hard gulps from a 12-ounce bottle of Bacardi Silver (strawberry).

It's been an effing long week, my darlings.

And it's only Day 3 of the 40 Days of Writing challenge.

Yikes.

They say write what you know, but I can't write that until everyone I know has passed away or gone blind and can no longer read, whichever comes first.

Ergo, what to write about?

Heavy sigh.

It's never easy getting my writing mojo back after a dry spell, and I usually make matters worse by editing too closely as I go -- "making love to my stories" is how one of my past editors described my obsessive attention to detail. I prefer to call it honing my craft. I just don't want to risk spelling something incorrectly, offending anyone, or striking a raw nerve, yada, yada, yada.

Oh, what the hell.

So have you read Fifty Shades of  Grey? 

Yes, I dare to mention that controversial little, um, romance novel by E.L. James. It has swept women everywhere off their feet and into dark, clandestine corners with their Kindle or old-school paperback to find out just what it is young Anastasia Steele and that mysterious Christian Grey are up to that has everyone's knickers -- or other undergarments -- in a wringer. They're bound to be doing something steamy (wink, wink).

I was at Wal-Mart with my son, Daniel, late Thursday afternoon when I decided to scour the bookshelves for the second in the Fifty Shades trilogy, Fifty Shades Darker, since I  read the first book roughly seven weeks ago.

Voila!  There it was! Right next to the last book of the trilogy, Fifty Shades Freed. (Good thing Mr. Grey is more intensely imaginative than the book titles, or there would not be much to read about, I dare say.)

"Oh, no, not Fifty Shades of Grey," my 19-year-old son said, with the usual bored disdain a kid with the first year of college under his belt often holds for his aging mother and her choices in books, music, clothes, you name it.

"I already read Fifty Shades of Grey," I shot back, in a clenched-teeth whisper. "I'm buying the next in the trilogy."

What the hell was I whispering for?  I am 55 years old. And post-menopausal. If I want to buy 50 copies of Fifty Shades of Grey and a bottle of  Mad Dog 20/20 to go with them, so be it.

Nevertheless, as I marched defiantly to the checkout,  Fifty Shades Darker proudly in my possession,  I sorta felt like the usually prim and proper Marian the Librarian in my fave musical The Music Man. Remember the scene where Professor Harold Hill is surrounded by River City's  Pick-A-Little-Talk-A-Little busy bodies who are questioning Marian's morals?

I  imagined them gathered around a nearby Wal-Mart end cap, clucking away as I paid for my book...

All the ladies:
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little,
talk a little, cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more

Maud:
Professor, her kind of woman doesn't belong on any committee.
Of course, I shouldn't tell you this but she advocates dirty books.

Harold:
Dirty books?!

Alma:
Chaucer !

Ethel:
Rabelais!

Eulalie:
Balzac!

Wal-Mart Greeter:
E.L. JAMES!

Speaking of the library...if you're interested, I understand there is quite a long Fifty Shades of Grey waiting list at ours, so you are more than welcome to borrow my copy. If you don't mind all the dog-earred pages...

Laters Baby.