I used to write. I used to write a lot. I wrote 6 books, in varying manuscript lengths from 300 pages to 650 pages. I wrote them mostly, I think, for therapy, but a couple were almost good enough for publishing. You know what I mean. I got disillusioned with publishing long before I got disillusioned with romance.

Do you know, those books lie, romance novels do. I started young and it was my version of the Cinderella fantasy. (I knew and read the real Grimm’s fairy tales and so the whole disneyfied Cinderella bit passed me by.) Then I got married and my eyes were opened to the truth of the matter.

Since, I have become self-loathing with regard to my eagerness to perpetuate the lie out of ignorance. And so now I have nothing to write. My well was empty long before I discovered the lie, but still. I make observations on human behavior every day, so having it laid out to me in an IQ-friendly Reader’s Digest or IQ-unfriendly lit rag doesn’t really float my boat. I am not even close to that which is the brilliance of Neal Stephenson or Umberto Eco or Tom Wolfe, nor do I have the stamina of J.K. Rowling.

I’m just an erstwhile essay writer who has nothing to say and lots of words to say it with. Fortunately, essay brevity has always been my forte.