I wasn’t silly enough to think I had caused my father’s cancer by writing a story about cancer. Yet, wasn’t there something uncomfortably eerie, perhaps karmic? I had so happily, eagerly laid out this fictional woman’s fate and built up her life story only to kill her off in order to write the “real” story. I knew all of the lingo of cancer but none of the life.
Chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, and all of the assorted paraphernalia associated with cancer became part of my everyday vocabulary.
I never wrote fiction again.
At least, not vanilla fiction. I wrote spanking stories, my way of pretending I wasn’t really writing, until the unexpected happened. I wrote my first vanilla story, or my first vanilla story since the C-word happened. (Hint: It’s now available as Living in Sin.)
My newest work in progress (WIP) contains no spanking. None. One playful tap on the hip, but nothing else. No spanking.After a second occurrence, my father’s cancer is technically considered incurable. It may strike again tomorrow, in five years, fifteen, or twenty.