Funny moment on the train this morning. With the cars being as crowded as they were, I walked to the next car and took a seat. Maybe, the absence of my fellow commuters should have tipped me off — look, I haven’t had any carbs in almost a week…I’m a little dense — but I took a seat, pulled out my laptop and proceeded to work on a blog entry for FSP. With Tori Amos crooning in my ear (Abnormally Attracted to Sin was the song I was listening to incidentally) I typed away, sipping coffee here and there.
Either the ticket taker was that amused, or he was stunned by my ethereal beauty (insert sarcasm here), but he just stood there staring at me. I knew he was there, but I was in the groove, so I pretended not to see him until Tori had finished being awesome. It wasn’t until I reached for the ear buds that he walked over to me.
“You know this car’s closed,” he said, smiling. It was almost like he was being apologetic.
I looked around. At this point, my stupidity slapped me across the face like the guys did in the Three Stooges skits. While I felt two cents short of stupid, I played it off. “Oh, I thought this was the V.I.P. section.”
Apparently, the conductor thought it was funny enough to let me stay put for the duration of the ride. He asked me about what I was writing explained gave a brief overview of what I was doing. Hey, I can use all the fans I can get. Of course I had to run through the usually gauntlet of questions.
“Have I read anything you wrote?”
“Not sure. Have you?”
“What do you write?”
“Horror and sometimes mainstream fiction.”
“You mean like vampires and werewolves?”
“Something a little heavier than that. Maybe something a little on the gory side.”
“Now what do you see in writing all that gory stuff?”
“I don’t know. I like writing about emotionally unstable, yet normal-looking people masturbating while chewing on the entrails of unsuspecting strangers they happen to meet on the train.”
This is where the blank stare comes in, followed by, “Well, you have a nice day.”
Why is it that some people assume women are only capable of either writing romance, children’s books, or something along the lines of Twilight? Maybe it’s hard for people to imagine women conjuring up the demons that reside in the human condition, splaying them onto the page for people to read in both horror and in admiration.
Maybe I’ll just chalk it up to “old fashion thinking.” I think that’s what my dad would call it.
Either way, it was a fun conversation.