Recently, at a luncheon, I sat next to a retired man who lived in a 50+ facility. He raved about the organized activities, his found community, and the ease of everyday life.
Then he asked, “What do you do?”
I told him I was editing my first manuscript. When pressed further, I shared I wrote book club, contemporary, and women’s fiction. His confused expression prompted me to explain further.
I’d love to respond by saying, “I kill people for a living.” (People die in many of my short stories, so yes, I do have a dark streak.) “I mastermind capers and crimes.” Or perhaps, “I spend most days embroiled in delicious fantasies.” Then give a little wink. All are easy for others to understand and fun conversation starters.
I hesitate to discuss Hope and Madness at social events because the themes and premise are so heavy that it drops a discomfort into the room and hijacks the conversation.
Some friends ask if I’m writing Hope and Madness to find catharsis.
Far from it.
It’s the opposite of emotional relief. It forces me to relive traumatic experiences and to swim in the soup of difficult emotions, examining their essence to render truth on the page. I write Hope and Madness because I feel it’s important.
I gave him my elevator speech.
“So, not a romance,” the man said.
The way he said it carried a distinct undertone—women write romance, and I was writing outside the lines.
A fissure of annoyance ran through me. “No, not romance. Though it is the largest and most profitable sector in the publishing industry. What do you read?”
“I keep busy.”
The conversation shifted to travel.
While I love a good dose of escapism, I learned long ago that I thrive on purpose.
I want more than to “keep busy.”
That is why what I write lives in the discomfort of real life, where happy endings, easy answers, and superheroes rarely exist. Where women are often asked to explain themselves and their choices. My stories interrogate the assumptions of who society expects them to be and the consequences when they comply … or don’t.
I write in a quest for understanding, to share what I’ve discovered, and to make a difference.
“So, not a romance.”
Our conversation lingered in my mind.
“What do you do?” On the surface, it’s a benign social pleasantry. What lingers beneath is hierarchy, sorting, and judgment.
The question is simple.
I find the answer rarely is.
The experience prompted me to create a short story that explores the question itself. I believe The Question provides a straightforward answer of what I do and what I write more clearly than any explanation I could give around a table. I put a QR link to it on my business card to avoid future awkward social conversations.
If you can think of a fun, clever way to respond to the question of what I write, short of whipping out my card or asking AI, I’d love to hear it.