I meant to post something last weekend, but I have a great excuse. I was writing. (Yay!) Vampires (boo!) again (sigh)
I may be the only person in the world who truly doesn't get the whole vampire thing. Considering how easy it is to turn my mind to naughty thoughts, you'd think I'd find something to like about them. There's the whole savage beast thing, the angst, and of course, the costumes! Even without finding them sexy, you'd think my intellectual side would get into the whole vampire as a metaphor for just about everything, with a soupcon of Freudian analysis. But no.
So of course, after I rewrote a vampire short, and produced a new one for an anthology, I was ready to take a break from the bloodsuckers for a while and write something that got my pulse fluttering. But then I was blindsided by a vampire novella that sprung fully formed from my skull like Athena, only with fangs.
I knocked out over 20,000 words last weekend. That's unprecedented output for me. I'm usually a slow writer.
So if I hate vampires, why do I write them? You're so cute. But I'll tell you a horrible truth: if you want to eventually become a professional writer, you have to write what sells. Vampires sell. So I blame the public. And I hope to god their fascination switches to something else soon. Just, you know, please no fairies. I may be a writer whore, but I have limits.