In which I have an epiphany, eat a veggie sandwich and find out I’m a Fluff Writer


As I was sitting here discussing my current WIP with the husby, trying to explain to him everything I’ve written to try and get a handle on where I’m going, and telling him about everything going on in the background that I haven’t written yet and may never get to paper I had the realization that I might just be a Fluff Writer. At least on this current book.

You see, I have to explain, in depth, all these things to husby because I will not allow him to read anything I write. He’s a harsh critic. And it hurts. Though I end up telling him much more about any story I have in mind than I actually write down in words. I should just let him read it. But anyway, I digress.

The realization that I might write Fluff doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. Writing it makes me happy. I hope to make other people happy with my writing. I think that’s a-okay. Will I ever write a scary, super thriller like King? Probably not. But I’m not King. I’m Crystal and Crystal, apparently, writes Fluff and likes it. 

So, while I was rolling over this new form of self discovery at 8:30 p.m., I made a veggie sandwich. It’s my favorite. I roast veggies, add 1/4 an avocado and some Duke’s mayo. Holy guacamole, one bite and I’m in heaven. I made the veggie sandwich because there is a box of cookies calling my name. I ate sustenance in lieu of fluff.

Much like how I read books.

Sometimes I ingest carbs and veggies, sometimes I go right for the sweets. I don’t mind my writing being someone’s sweets. After reading such hard hitters like Saintcrow or Jemiah Jefferson that toss me sideways and rip me raw, I need something fun, light, fluffy. And I can write that.

This is a big, huge thing for me, being okay with this personal revelation, as I have a slight problem comparing myself to other writers. Because I don’t write like those wonderstars above that leave me emotional ragged and painfully sad when the wild ride is over, that I am not a good writer. Because I think that something I do, that makes me happy, is still not good enough for other’s eyes.

And that is very bad.

Worse than eating sweets for dinner.

The point isn’t what I write but that I enjoy writing it, that I take the time to perfect my craft, that I entertain other’s which is my goal. I hope it doesn’t mean that that is all I’ll be writing forever into the future, I’d like to think I’m more than a one trick pony, but I’m okay with this today. Now, where’d those cookies go?


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