*pauses from indignant huffing and puffing to realize that a teensy bit of explanation may be needed*
With my specter of imminent failure currently curbside waiting for the next bus out of town, I had a moment for clear, uninterrupted-by-doom-and-gloom thought last night. In this fractional hour of clarity I realized that no matter how much spit and shine, lipstick and glitter you put on a cow, it’s still a gosh-darn cow.
*winces as four-legged, furry muse slaps a paw upside my head for mixing metaphors/analogies/what-the-heck-evers*
Fine. Plain and simple. Here we go…
No matter how hard, how long, how detailed, how immaculately charming, how smoking hot I make The Hushing Days, my next novel will still be just a romance.
It will be consumed in one sitting or two. It will be an economically-prudent purchase that will yield an economically-slight profit for publishing house, agent, and me.
Don’t misunderstand me, please. This is not degrading the genre (the genre which has given me the break I’ve worked so hard to find). No, it is only meant as a kick in the butt for me.
I’ve been babying The Hushing Days into perfection… a perfection that will still produce nothing but a bowl of popcorn.
Get over it, Chloe!
Get the gooey-hearted snack out onto the market and move on to the next goodie-to-go!
Yep, a little salty reality is needed here.
*gulps and hugs furry muse close*