So it was almost a week since the last time I wrote anything, but I finally sat down and wrote a scene last night. 1384 words in which my bad guy imagined doing Very Bad Things to my heroine.
It was one of those–Perhaps I should consider a pseudonym– sort of scenes. You know what I’m talking about? I have ever been somewhat secretive about my writing in general, but it’s always been more of an issue of overall quality and fear of failure (if no one knows you do something, they can’t very well think you’re a failure at it, right?) than worry over anyone reading any particular part. But last night I had two clear thoughts about what I wrote:
- Will my quite religious family read this and disown me? and
- Why, once I let myself get rolling with it, was it so much easier to write this sick shit than a love scene between my main characters?