perverse-pleasure

There is perverse pleasure to be a writer. I can sit here bang out my next rejection (kidding, kidding, Anyhoo…) talk on the phone, get my “day job” done all while in my ratty sweats, Dirk t-shirt and Minnie Mouse slippers. 

(or god forbid days like yesterday wearing the same clothes I slept in while I rush between toilet hugging kiddos…ICK!) 

I digress…there’s something for a writer’s life where you don’t have to be glamorous hell, you don’t have to be particularly kempt. I must admit, I don’t normally wear a lot of make-up anyway, so really slapping on a pair of jeans to schlep kid A to kid Z to school, doesn’t require a lot.  

Yet, to me, when you see a writer portrayed in a movie or TV show, they’re either orthopedic sporting Jessica Fletcher-ish or uber-cool and uber-disturbed (Johnny Depp) Mort Rainey-ish. 

Both have a style, well miss Flethcer, while you were working the cable knit cardigans and pearls, not so much. But Mort… I have always fantasized about having a place in the woods, or renting a beach house to finish up that dern book that is past due to this editor or that. But in reality, I am banging out a paragraph between soccer practices and band concerts and scouts. Not to mention, the commercial break during Idol wacthing on the Alphasmart or note taking sitting in line to pick up schlepped kiddo from school.  

Not too terribly sexy, but again, garbed in my best house-frau apparel I take an odd and perverse pleasure in writing headboard thumping sex scenes while Guitar Hero and Spiro echo through the rooms.  

Hell, maybe my warped can give ole Mort’s warped a run for the money… naw, I don’t like to garden…