It was never my plan to be a sex writer. Is it anyone’s plan? No. I wanted to be the next Bill Ervolino, writing slice-of-life humor columns for my local paper. Instead, I somehow ended up reviewing Carol Queen’s Exhibitionism for the Shy and test driving vibrators and state-of-the-art condoms. Suddenly, I was making a living writing listicles on the top ten ways to boost your libido. I was creating online clickbait for cash. And it was burning me out.
This past Tuesday, I walked to my polling center at the elementary school around the corner and cast my vote, and then I walked back home and worked on my book and started editing a teaching manual on bullying and braced myself for whatever might happen next.
I finally read Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children this past weekend, because the movie looks like fun and I like to read the source material first and who doesn’t enjoy something dark and peculiar? It was delightful, of course, and well deserving of all its accolades, but what charmed me the most was that the story itself was inspired by found photographs, vintage photos discovered at flea markets and such.
You would think that after being a full-time freelancer for nearly 10 years, I would know better than to get complacent. But I’m only human. I have the constant twin distractions of a work-at-home husband and a 2-year-old daughter. I have an ever-alluring TBR pile. There are Joss Whedon television shows to binge watch and Twitter feeds to refresh and stickers to paste into my Passion Planner. I have dreams. I have exhaustion.