Permanently Pimpy

Seriously - I think that title exactly describes me these days, in a back handed kind of way. It's a horrible situation for a semi-reclusive, introverted, depressingly Romantic, writer to be in.

I love to write, I love to have people read what I write (just like all writers, we're terrible that way) and just between you and me and the gate post, I don't have to rely on my writing to put food on my plate.

So what's a hermit to do?

I have no viable ideas and what few I do get make me feel like a pimp. I'm pimping myself, lol. When I think of it. I'm much more successful at pimping Lori but she can out-pimp me any old day.

So here's my tired pimp for the day. I've had another book accepted, it's called Mariposa. Did I already say that here? Well, I'm saying it again.

And to pimp it, or maybe just me in general, I hereby give you a smidgin - smidgette? - not of Mariposa, I'll save that to closer to time, but of my next great release after Bea: TL Everly, the Belle of the West Coast, lol.

Any pimping ideas? Please don't make me Twitter!

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It’s my own damn fault I’m in this mess. I freely admit to it. There must be a nesting cycle women go through when they reach a certain age and I was pushing thirty with no prospects in sight. I’d bought the house against Mira’s advice and for sure I regretted it now.

Mirabelle Edith is Aunt Lil’s daughter and my best friend. We grew up together, did everything together. We even lost our virginity together. Not with each other--is that even possible?--We were on a double date. but I don’t even want to think about that. Suffice it to say, it would beat any Stephen King horror story. Hormones sure have a lot to answer for. It sort of put me off any further experimenting, especially when the guy never called again.

Mira was sure we were both pregnant. I wasn’t sure there’d even been penetration, but she seemed to think sperm were some sort of super beings that could finish the job without getting close to the jackpot.

We weren’t pregnant, thank the Lord. It did make us more cautious though. Mama would have had a conniption. I’d have found myself married to some second cousin twice removed I’d never met before, while Mama crocheted baby booties and tried names on for size.