You know that movie, “Confessions of a Shopaholic”? It pisses me off. And it has pissed me off since it was just one book, before it became a series, and then a movie. It epitomized how ANYONE could write chick-lit. I read a lot of mediocre Bridget Jones-wannabees during the height of the chick-lit craze. I could have written any one of them. “Shopaholic” always stood out in my mind as the primary example of that. It’s a cute book, cute story, but nothing earth-shattering either in the content OR the writing. I could have written the same subject matter, and done it just as well or better. Except I didn’t. Which also means I didn’t have a book and three sequels on the bestseller lists, and I don’t currently have a movie based on my book in major release.
That all sucks.
I guess it’s not just about talent, imagination or skills, though. It’s about having the drive to actually do it. I barely have the attention span to sit down and write a 300-word “How-To” article or a blog entry. I’ve been told that if I broke the idea of a book down in my head into like, a couple hundred blog entries, I’d be able to do it. But I don’t know – I’m not dumb, I know when I’m trying to fool myself, usually. The overwhelming sense of “holy crap this is too much I can’t do this” would still be there, no matter how I tried to push it away.
So here I sit, writing my random blog entries and waiting for “Confessions of a Shopaholic” to come out on HBO because I did not make millions of dollars from my best-selling novels and movie royalties and so that $7 for a movie is a little steep. Especially one that, like, rips me open and exposes my seething inadequacies.
Damn you, Sophie Kinsella.