My friends, they know me.
I was complaining to a group of friends-who-are-writers about troubles with a story. (Not the one currently written and awaiting the last beta feedback, but the next one in queue.)
Me: …Or maybe I can light the whole thing on fire and go write something with, I dunno, a girly-girl who likes shopping. And her biggest problem is she can’t find the perfect shoes in her size. And kittens.
So much pink.
Friend 1 (A romance writer): LOL, you’d set the mall on fire and have it come under siege by terrorists in 2 chapters.
Friend 2 (A Mil-SF writer): By the end of it you’d have her collapsing someone’s windpipe with the stiletto heels.
And then a lone SOF guy from another country would go in a la Nairobi Mall, evacuate her, and she’d wonder who the masked hero was, run into him in a restaurant, fall in love, eventually recognize the voice, and then she’d save his life in an attempted reprisal against him.
Me: Okay, fine, you know me. I love you too!
…after a little thought…
Me: You’re going to resurrect this thread and ask me when I’m writing it, aren’t you?
Friend 1: I’m giving you a month.
…Instead of working on the project I was complaining about in the first place, I’m two chapters in to this, and nothing’s blown up yet. To the vast disappointment of the betting pool, but they have hopes for chapter three. Sigh. Worse, I suspect they’re right. Maybe, just maybe, if I keep this to a short story I can get through it without anything blowing up, crashing, catching fire… maybe…