Started watching 17 Girls on Netflix today. The French film is loosely based on the Glouscester High School pregnancy pact. Didn’t finish it, though. Not because it was dull, my mind and heart weren’t into watching anything. A depression has seeded itself deep within my metaphorical soul. My imagination, however, has been hyper active.
I started thinking about a piece I started years ago. And like most pieces I started years ago, this one never made it past the skeleton stage. I’m not even sure if I still have it. The working title was “Damaged Little Fuckers.” I didn’t intend to write a young adult story, but possibility is there. The original idea told a story of a teenage boy who falls in love for a “damaged goods” girl who finds herself pregnant without knowing who the father is. It was cliché in every sense of the word, if it weren’t for the underlining autobiographical aspect (a story I didn’t tell anyone, and never intend to).
I’m feeling inclined to write a semi-romantic drama with guns. I don’t know how that’ll work out. Another idea is about a serial killer and a girl. This has been an ongoing thought that I’ve expressed throughout my blog about a real conversation I had with my boss’s daughter.
There’s one more autobiographical piece that I’m contemplating. A love story, maybe. Who knows. A new leaf has turned. I also have to work on my Bad Sex with ****** *** ****. I’ll carve out some stories for that (short blog posts, actually). I might even be daring enough to ask erotica writers (erotic writers?) for some advice.
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