scumbag.
"Look. Based on a true story ." Jack points at the screen. "I can't wait until this comes out on Redbox and we can do a drinking game."
"We could've done one now," I observe. "Want me to go hit the liquor store across the street? It's not like they're searching bags here."
"It's eleven-thirty in the morning," he observes, raising his eyebrow at me. "Have some morals, Warden."
"Neither of us have jobs, Harrison ." I laugh at him. Thankfully, we're the only ones in the theater, so we get to enjoy ourselves. "There's nothing immoral about day-drinking when you have no responsibilities."
"Yeah, but there is something immoral about me carting your drunk ass home. Never again, I swear. Didn't even get a blowjob out of it." He winks at me.
"You want one?" I flick a piece of popcorn at his lap.
"Ask me again in ten years, if we're both still single." Suddenly, he sits up straighter. "Shit, I just thought of the best plot for a romantic-comedy-porno ever."
"Oh, great, I hear that's a super lucrative genre right now." I roll my eyes at him. "Okay, so...which part of this is based on a true story?"
"That part," he says, pointing at the lead actor taking a drink. "One of the family members probably drank soda at some point, right?"
Snickering, I lean back in my seat. "Okay, but seriously. It has to be something more than that."
"No, it doesn't." He turns to look at me. "Wait, are you serious? You actually think they have to back up their claims when they say that? Nobody asks."
I guess I've never thought about it before. "So, you can just make up any bullshit you want and claim it's true? And nobody can sue you?"
"I mean, as long as it's not about anyone in particular, sure." Jack shrugs. "Who cares? Who's gonna find out?"
The seed of an idea is germinating in my mind. I can't even focus on the movie when shit starts to go crazy, because I'm still thinking about what Jack said.
Last year, I did try my hand at writing a romance novel. It's the most lucrative genre in fiction, and I guess I wanted to prove a point to myself. I managed to get some good reviews and make enough to cover the editing costs, but it became very clear that it wasn't going to be my new career. I just didn't get it. Clearly, I didn't understand what the market wanted. I swore I'd never do it again, but now I'm starting to reconsider.
Rom-com porno sounds ridiculous, but in this post Fifty Shades world, I know steamy romance is hugely popular. And "based on a true story" as a hook? I could do a lot worse.
It's been a while since I tried to write fiction. Before the last novel, it had been even longer. My parents always gently discouraged me from it, saying it was impossible to make a career out of it. Unless I was lucky enough to become the next Stephen King or James Patterson, there were a lot more practical ways to spend my time.
A plot is starting to unwind itself in my mind, and not even the jump scares can shake me out of it. I can already see the movie trailer set to Carolina Liar's "Show Me What I'm Looking For." It's beautiful, sexy, inspiring. I'll hit every bestseller list, win every award.
"Psst." Jack snaps his fingers in my face. "Where'd you wander off to?"
"I got an idea," I tell him, slowly, still staring at the screen but not really seeing it. "An idea for a book."
***
Back at home, I nibble on the edge of my fingernail. Am I really going to do this? It's so easy: just five little words. A lie, but a harmless one. I'm not even pretending to be an addict or a trauma survivor or anything like that, and besides, people lie like this all the time. Like the people who made that movie. They don't expect me to believe some family was really terrorized by a demon that was attached to a haunted doll, do they? It's artistic license. It's an acceptable falsehood.
Nobody will ever know.
I've already got a perfectly serviceable pen name, with one sad, languishing book I never bothered to un-publish. So why not? What's stopping
"Look. Based on a true story ." Jack points at the screen. "I can't wait until this comes out on Redbox and we can do a drinking game."
"We could've done one now," I observe. "Want me to go hit the liquor store across the street? It's not like they're searching bags here."
"It's eleven-thirty in the morning," he observes, raising his eyebrow at me. "Have some morals, Warden."
"Neither of us have jobs, Harrison ." I laugh at him. Thankfully, we're the only ones in the theater, so we get to enjoy ourselves. "There's nothing immoral about day-drinking when you have no responsibilities."
"Yeah, but there is something immoral about me carting your drunk ass home. Never again, I swear. Didn't even get a blowjob out of it." He winks at me.
"You want one?" I flick a piece of popcorn at his lap.
"Ask me again in ten years, if we're both still single." Suddenly, he sits up straighter. "Shit, I just thought of the best plot for a romantic-comedy-porno ever."
"Oh, great, I hear that's a super lucrative genre right now." I roll my eyes at him. "Okay, so...which part of this is based on a true story?"
"That part," he says, pointing at the lead actor taking a drink. "One of the family members probably drank soda at some point, right?"
Snickering, I lean back in my seat. "Okay, but seriously. It has to be something more than that."
"No, it doesn't." He turns to look at me. "Wait, are you serious? You actually think they have to back up their claims when they say that? Nobody asks."
I guess I've never thought about it before. "So, you can just make up any bullshit you want and claim it's true? And nobody can sue you?"
"I mean, as long as it's not about anyone in particular, sure." Jack shrugs. "Who cares? Who's gonna find out?"
The seed of an idea is germinating in my mind. I can't even focus on the movie when shit starts to go crazy, because I'm still thinking about what Jack said.
Last year, I did try my hand at writing a romance novel. It's the most lucrative genre in fiction, and I guess I wanted to prove a point to myself. I managed to get some good reviews and make enough to cover the editing costs, but it became very clear that it wasn't going to be my new career. I just didn't get it. Clearly, I didn't understand what the market wanted. I swore I'd never do it again, but now I'm starting to reconsider.
Rom-com porno sounds ridiculous, but in this post Fifty Shades world, I know steamy romance is hugely popular. And "based on a true story" as a hook? I could do a lot worse.
It's been a while since I tried to write fiction. Before the last novel, it had been even longer. My parents always gently discouraged me from it, saying it was impossible to make a career out of it. Unless I was lucky enough to become the next Stephen King or James Patterson, there were a lot more practical ways to spend my time.
A plot is starting to unwind itself in my mind, and not even the jump scares can shake me out of it. I can already see the movie trailer set to Carolina Liar's "Show Me What I'm Looking For." It's beautiful, sexy, inspiring. I'll hit every bestseller list, win every award.
"Psst." Jack snaps his fingers in my face. "Where'd you wander off to?"
"I got an idea," I tell him, slowly, still staring at the screen but not really seeing it. "An idea for a book."
***
Back at home, I nibble on the edge of my fingernail. Am I really going to do this? It's so easy: just five little words. A lie, but a harmless one. I'm not even pretending to be an addict or a trauma survivor or anything like that, and besides, people lie like this all the time. Like the people who made that movie. They don't expect me to believe some family was really terrorized by a demon that was attached to a haunted doll, do they? It's artistic license. It's an acceptable falsehood.
Nobody will ever know.
I've already got a perfectly serviceable pen name, with one sad, languishing book I never bothered to un-publish. So why not? What's stopping
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