Synopsis – the cause of pathetic sobbing, foul language, excessive drinking, and self loathing.
It’s in the dictionary between dried tears and coffee stains. Swear. Or maybe that’s just my dictionary.
Now that we’ve cleared that up, you’re probably wondering why I’m talking about my shortcomings as a writer and not about my vagina, Heather’s vagina, or vagina in general. Well, allow me to explain, but be patient with me because I’ve had a ridiculous amount of coffee and my head is on the verge of exploding.
Oooooh, shiny.
I’ve been hard at work on my memoir-fiction-Young Adult-memoir-BDSM erotica-memoir-New Adult-memoir-BDSM-New Adult novel, erm, memoir, Broken, which I plan to publish soon. Or in the next year or so, depending on how many times I decide rewrite it, but whatever.
Fucking coffee.
Heather and I had the idea of posting teasers of our works in progress each Tuesday for you, dear vagina readers. Like Titty Tuesday, but with no tits at all. Anyway, I* *Heather realized we need some sort of synopsis so our excerpts make sense. The word immediately reduced me to a fetal position, but she was right. I anguished over it for at least three hours this morning before it hit me: I’ve already written one, sorta. Okay, so it’s a little unconventional, but if you’ve read Vagina Antics for any length of time, there are mentions throughout of The Bad Boy and how damaging the relationship was. You can find a little here, and here. Oh, and here, too.
And now that I’ve managed to make a short story unnecessarily wordy– it really was a lot of coffee –here’s a taste of Broken, my work in progress:
Suspicions of cruelty in our relationship were no longer unsupported and flimsy. The rumors had become hard truth, and the whispers on the other side of the bathroom door grew louder as they multiplied. My skeletons were no longer hidden away safely. They were out in the open now, and people I’d known most of my life were waiting for their chance to pick at the bones. They’ll forget, though, once enough time has passed and the bruises have faded. But I won’t. Emotional disfigurement will leave me crippled, and when my wounds have healed, my body will be covered with invisible scars I’ll see every time I look into a mirror. I’ll feel them with every breath I take.
