Sometimes, I wish I could write the kind of bland, unexciting, generic stuff that lines the shelves of libraries and bookstores.
Here’s one about the women in a book club, or a knitting club, or a writing group. Two sisters open a cupcake shop or an art gallery, or three sisters take a holiday in Ireland or Italy and find romance. Lifelong friends weather what life throws at them: cancer, cheating husbands, wayward kids.
Seriously? When I have an idea like that, I think to myself, “No one would ever buy this.”
Apparently, I am mistaken.
Sadly, I do not have the stomach of steel required to write such a book before dying of boredom.
A character-driven story that meanders around for a couple hundred pages, heads to a climactic event and resolves itself in a neat and tidy ending. No big words. A stereotypical character or two: a driven career woman who “learns what’s important;” a homemaker who “finds her true path;” a handsome cad; a “good guy” in flannel shirts and workboots. A little humor, a little romance, a little self-doubt…
Have I put you to sleep yet? But the shelves are teeming with these books.
I could draw on my experience as a divorce lawyer and write about a woman in her 40s who starts divorce proceedings because she’s “not happy” (by far the most common reason I heard), fools around with another man, and then discovers that what she really needs to do is quit being selfish and honor the commitment that she made.
No one would ever buy that.
At least they shouldn’t.
It would probably be a flippin’ best seller.