I've been very fortunate in my writing career. Over the years I've met some fascinating people and have been paid nicely for
my stories, but sometimes I and other writers I know reach a point where we feel stuck and uninspired. That's not good.
No writing = no income.
been at that stuck station for quite a while. The very thought of writing one more piece about pastured pigs or imperiled
pollinators left me nearly comatose, but what to do...? Maybe all I needed was a simple change of subject matter.
Leafing through Writer's Market for the most lucrative genres
I found them to be religion and porn. That first genre was out of the question since I am a pantheist and everything about
pantheism has already been written by thinkers far more profound than I could ever hope to be. That left porn as the
other profitable option, so I decided to give it a go, but I would tell no one.
How difficult could it be anyway? I'd read Fifty Shades of Gray and found
the writing tiresome at best (all that lower lip biting...). My own effort would be more subtle; suggestive rather than overt
and I would debut ‘Just Another Dick' (under a pen name of course). The protagonist's victim was named Richard, AKA
Dick, but the double entendre was intentional.
it was fun, but even more fun was my secret writing life. Those who know me would be shocked to think their aging, turtleneck
and sneaker-clad friend, the one with dog, cat and donkey hairs stuck all over her sweaters would even think about
writing such rubbish. If they only knew.... Tapping away at the computer made me smile just imagining their reactions.
And then it happened; the computer
crashed. Backing stuff up (even if it's trash) is important, but alas I hadn't done so. And I was just getting to the good
part too. Before it was completed, it was gone. My venture into the seedy world of porn ended before it ever really began-an
omen perhaps. And no, I've no plans to start over.
I've returned to writing about critters and oddball people, but it's different now. A black cloud of divisiveness
hangs over everything, including subjects that used to be as innocuous as, well, pastured pigs. I think of this period as
transitional, but I don't know what it's transitioning to.
I'd also decided
to abandon this blog as finding the joy and inspiration that was so abundant when old Kenny was alive is gone: When a trip
down his rutted lane meant escape from all the cares of the world. When Kitty and Mister Stinky the skunk hurried to greet
my truck. When the old man in the over-heated house teetered out to the kitchen to see what I'd brought for his dinner. When
the vulgar incompetent creature that now sits in the White House was not yet a reality. When I was naively content....
I was in England when Kenny's farm
sold and was glad to have missed the auction. It would have been painful to see the gavel fall, but a part of me hoped that
the new owner might be someone who shared my respect for the 1857 farm: someone who would restore the old house, someone who
would grow organic crops and who would understand the difference between ‘need' and ‘want.' Someone like Kenny.
When the political sign sprouted at the end of that familiar lane, I knew that hope had been in vain.
So, now the siding is being stripped from the house and the inside
is gutted right down to the sturdy bones that kept it sound for 160 years. One building has been burned to the ground and
there's no hint of the sanctuary that once existed. I've met the new owner and he is everything I expected, but not what I'd
Thank goodness for dogs.