The Monster at the End of this Book: Many, many adults name this book as their favorite Little Golden Book. Generations of kids have interacted with lovable, furry old Grover as he begs the reader not to turn the page for fear of a monster at the end of the book. "Oh, I am so embarrassed," he says on the last page... for, of course, the monster is Grover himself!
Today I cracked the final chapter (the epilogue, actually) of my first erotic "monster" novella. I'm a sucker for a good ghost story. I've got the first draft of a ghostly erotic romance wasting away on my hard drive right now. But this new project? This monster project? Well, it came to me while watching some kind of "When Ghosts Attack" show. I got thinking, "What if an incubus-poltergeist could jump inside living bodies to use and abuse his victim?"
Pleasant thought, eh?
Anyway, I pushed this idea aside because a) I was in the middle of another project and b) it's kinda rapey, and that's not really what I do.
The day after watching "When Ghosts Attack" (or whatever cheesy show it was), a friend announced she was putting together a collection of MONSTER EROTICA. The timing blew me away. I had this idea that seemed a little iffy, a little frightening, and I wasn't going to do anything about it until this opportunity came about, like a clap on the back telling me, "It's time. Go do it."
So I finished the novella I had on the go, and then started Monstrous Obsession (aka "The Rapey Monster Book"). I'd written about a chapter and a half before getting cold feet. I'm not exactly known for writing rapey monster books. Should I really be delving into this area? I know it's a lot of people's fantasy, but it's not mine. Do I have any right writing it?
Just like Grover in the above-mentioned Little Golden Book (that series sounds really dirty all of a sudden), the more I wrote, the more skittish I became. In particular, I had an idea of how the final chapter would play out, and it was definitely not my usual "consensual sex between humans" scenario.
Well, today I finished that chapter. Took three or four days to get there, which is a ridiculously long time for a prolific professional writer. What's more, as I got closer to the end, I found myself staying in bed longer and longer come morning. I'm chronically depressed, so having trouble getting out of bed is nothing new, but in this case there was a direct connection between my book and my inability to start the day.
I was scared of my own monster.
Every time I left the house, I found myself looking over my shoulder... well, more than usual. The rapey monsters were OUT THERE, weren't they? Out to get me.
The harder I tried to finish the damn book, the longer it took to write. I've barely cracked 1,000 words per day. That's no good. I want it to be done. Now.
Thank goodness I'm close. No more rapey monsters in the epilogue. Only a biker wedding. Nothing to be afraid of.
Because, you know, the monster at the end of this book? It's me. It was me all along.