The Stepford Village Voice
There’s the Village Voice, and then there’s the Stepford Village Voice–that would be me. Though it’s pretty ambitious to compare a respected journalistic institution with a one-woman Walking User Error, let’s just do it in the name of bad jokes everywhere.
Good morning. It’s me again. And I do occasionally refer to my town (with all due affection) as a Stepford Village, because it’s very clean and green and it doesn’t look like the kind of place they would let a madwoman like me into. Then again, I have often joked that I am in disguise as a Stepford Wife. And it’s true: others do sometimes refer to me as the Village Idiot.
So, following that logic, the Stepford Village Voice seems an appropriate moniker for me. I am an author of commercial fiction masquerading as a housewife. I ramble around in my old SUV, dropping off Himself’s drycleaning while trying to solve plot problems in my current manuscript.
I go to the grocery store, muttering to myself, and pretend to thump melons while spying on other customers for character and dialogue ideas. When it’s really hot outside (my village is in south Florida) I admit to fantasies about climbing into the frozen food cases and nestling among the peas.
Where am I going with this? Well, authors are encouraged (oh, fine, let’s admit it—we are virtually held at GUNPOINT) to blog. But most of us don’t feel that we lead very interesting lives. After all, we sit around on our rear ends and write. If we had webcams in our offices, nobody would watch the feed—seeing grass grow is more exciting.
But over half the country lives in ‘burbs just like mine, which means that the Stepford Village needs a voice! And probably more than one—which is a very good thing for all the other voices in my head. You’ve seen the t-shirt, right? The one that says, “You’re just jealous because the voices only talk to me?” Well, you lucky, lucky reader! Now they’re gonna talk to you, too.
With love and other warped ideas,