My husband has been spending a lot of time in airports lately and decided to take my books for a whirl. I must admit, when he called me and said that he was well into “Wait for Me,” part of me cringed. I mean, my writer self is worlds apart from my everyday self. In real life, I’m boring and kind of bitchy and definitely not a siren. I’m a Scotch-Irish hard-head who doesn’t back down from a fight easily and admittedly has a sharp tongue when I’m tired (which is a lot.) My writer self is a lot more fun. I believe in sex on the fly, like to flirt shamelessly, and don’t worry too much about dishes or laundry. My husband doesn’t quite understand that I am two separate people. So, the inevitable happened. When he arrived home from his business trip, there was a spark in his eyes. Ladies, you know the one. I nervously asked him, “What’s up?” and he told me that he had no idea that I was so sexually creative. “I’m not,” I had to explain to him. “My writer self is.” Next, my blond husband wanted to know why so many of my male love interests have black hair but that’s a story for another day. I think that writers are like actors. A lot of us are shy, introverted even, self-doubters. Through our writing, though, we are set free. We can be whomever we want to be. I can be carefree, funny, sexy…and all three rolled into one. I can shed my earthly anxieties and explore the world in any manner I choose. Writers live in a two-sided mirror; I’m not just one side or the other, I’m both. I am serious and ambitious, but I’m also fun and exciting. Just don’t tell my husband.
Monthly Archives: February 2015
Fifty Shades of Jealousy
You know when Target begins selling a line of adult toys based on a movie, the world as we have known it no longer exists. I haven’t read Fifty Shades of Grey. Not that I don’t love a good juicy book, but I think my parents were too fond of corporal punishment for me to ever find EL James’ brand of romance appealing. I won’t go see the movie either because I hate chick flicks. I always have. They don’t have enough twists and turns to keep me interested. My confession today, however, is that I am jealous as hell of EL James and her success. It doesn’t matter if I read her book or go to her movie; millions and millions of others have already filled my spot. It’s her complete and utter success as a self-publisher that has me peeved. Who among us hasn’t dreamed of that kind of success? When I watched a story about Reese Witherspoon talk on how she reads tons of books by women about women and chooses which ones to turn into a movie, my heart jumped. I mean, I’m a woman. I write about women. Sure, sometimes the women are ghosts, but they’re still women, right? Why couldn’t Reese Witherspoon pick up one of my books and be utterly fascinated? Even more, what’s stopping Princess Kate (I sell well in England) from reading one of my books and saying casually in an interview that I’m her favorite author? If she can cause a dress to be sold out in 45 minutes, imagine what she could do for my books. I was so jealous of EL James that I toyed with the idea of writing erotica. Then I realized that erotica doesn’t usually involve historical characters or a dead sister giving you advice from the beyond or an evil old witch placing a curse on innocent children. Unless I can create a whole new genre of paranormal, kind of creepy erotica, I think my career as an erotic writer can’t get off the ground. I wish I could say that I hope the best for EL James. I wish I was a better person. That green-eyed monster is a powerful thing, though. My hope is to someday make some other frustrated writer as jealous as I am today.
“Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.”–F. Scott Fitzgerald
I remember when I was a teenager, I thought to myself that no one really knew who I was. In true teenage form, I pretended to be who my friends wanted me to be. I was the sweet one, the understanding one, the one who never rocked the boat. It wasn’t who I truly was, it was just what the group needed. Even now, many years beyond my teens, I’m different people. At work, I’m the responsible one, the one that never says “I don’t have time.” To my family, I’m the problem solver, the one who always has a solution in times of trouble. If you ask my sons, they will say I’m the mean one, the one who over-reacts when we wait too long to get seated at a restaurant. Sorry, but I thought two hours was an excessive amount of time to wait. I didn’t yell, I just expressed my displeasure. There are few people who know who I really am; sometimes I even forget who I really am. Writing brings you back to yourself, though. Writing has a beautiful way of emptying your mind of all of the noise and focusing on the new world in which you want to live for the next three months. Fitzgerald was right. We are a whole lot of people. Sometimes I’m brave like Amy (Wait for Me). Sometimes I make really bad decisions like Grace (Saved by Grace). Sometimes I want to stick my head in the sand like Ellie (Second Chance). All of those women in my books are me and I’m those women. I’m in the middle of a life transition right now. We’re packing up our house in the Midwest and moving to Florida. My parents need me and as a friend said, it’s a nice thing that they live in Florida and not North Dakota! My writing is on hold but in a few months (if the real estate market is kind) I should be back at the keyboard while watching the sun set over the Gulf. I don’t have the main character figured out yet because I don’t know who I’ll be in the Spring. I’m looking forward to finding out.
Sandy Huth 