Anxiety Attax!

Okay, not a real anxiety attack. I haven't had one of those in years.

So, a few months ago, I was bitching about discussing Twilight with Husband. And he got tired of the... discussion, and says, "Well if you hate it so much, write something better."

And I said, "Fine."

So I did.

Well, maybe not better. But I wrote my very own vampire romance. And there's no angsty teenagers, or sparkling, or stupid hairdos, or vampires, or romance.

Wait, what?

That's right, folks. I got about 20 words into a real vampire romance and my fingers started rebelling against me. "We won't write this drivel!" they seemed to say as they stuttered over my keyboard. "We demand robots and FTL drives!"

I placated them with a story about vampire-esque things called Vorator, that are really more like just plain old monsters than actual vampires. They don't suck blood. They eat flesh. They're not afraid of sunlight, garlic, or religion. And they most certainly do not sparkle.

There are some romantic undertones, but it's definitely not a romance in the traditional sense. I call it my vampire romance, but I guess technically it would be classified as a supernatural thriller.

So about that anxiety attack...

I hooted and hollered about writing this thing, and when I finally finished it, I realized people had actually been paying attention to my hootings and hollerings. I posted on Facebook, "OMG finished with my stupid novel LOLOLOLOLOL" and all of a sudden, a dozen people were like, "Can I read it? Here's my e-mail!"

Lola Pro-Tip #1: Never tell a writer you'll read their novel unless you really mean it. Because they will give it to you, and a short story they wrote, and an outline they've been mulling over, and their grocery list just please for the love of God, read my stuff, I just want someone besides me to read my writing and tell me that I'm not the most horriblest writer they've ever encountered.

Ahem.

So now I have a list of people who want to read my novel, which is awesome, don't get me wrong. Any artist wants people to see their art, and more importantly, like their art. Maybe that's why I'm having such a freak attack about it.

I counted how many times I typed the word "fuck" or one of its conjugations.

54 times. I use "fuck" 54 times in 61,575 words.

I also include not one, not two, but three explicit sex scenes. There are multiple instances of extreme violence (not coinciding with the sex scenes; it's not one of those novels), and did I mention I swear a lot?

Well, I don't swear a lot. Connor and Brian swear a lot. Those little potty mouths. But I guess they can. They're adults, after all.

My mother wants to read this.

And my dad.

And... others. Who would probably never pick up a book like this if they were in the bookstore. I know they're only going to read it (or pretend they read it) because I wrote it and they want to support me. Which is freakin' awesome! But still scary. Next time I Skype with my mom, is she going to be like, "So I got to page 56. You're a sick fuck, you know that? Where did I go wrong!? You better not be teaching Chameleon any of this stuff!"

I should have sent this thing a couple of weeks ago, but I'm scared. I am. Total chickenshit. How am I supposed to submit this to publishers if I can't send it to my own mom?

Oh wait, because publishers don't say stuff like, "Hey did you get those old home videos I sent you? Of you and your sister dressed up like princesses and singing Christmas carols?"

Yeah.