My old man tends to say the sweetest things to me while we’re walking our dog at night. Last night he asked how my writing has been going. I told him about my new outline I was forming while doing a 1k write-a-thon at my friend’s house. It involves shape shifter wolves, something I’ve never written about in my history of writing. Normally I’m all for the modern day tie em’ up, spank them, and let’s see how many orgasms you can get out of her, kind of writer.
But what struck me as annoying was when he asked, “So, it’s a werewolf story?”
No, it’s not. It’s a wolf story.
“But isn’t that the same thing?”
No, it’s not.
Honestly, I have no idea, but something irks me when I imagine it as a werewolf story. I’m probably comparing tomatoes (to-MAY-toes) to tomatoes (to-MAH-toes) but it’s in my nature to be OCD about things. So if you’re ever out walking Miss. Cleo with me late at night, just don’t bring up werewolves. Apparently, I get annoyed by the notion.
And now, back to my wolf-girl story.