Questions I get as a writer

What do you write?
Depends. Do I feel like traveling all over the place? Killing and/or haunting characters? Adding some magic or mind control shit? I like to keep things interesting and don’t stick to anything specific.

How much money do you make?
Let’s just say, I didn’t quit my ‘actual’ job. If you’re a writer or starting out as one, don’t expect to make anything. If you do, it won’t be much.

How many copies have you sold?
Maybe a dozen or more. I don’t know. I don’t look at numbers. I’m an indie writer, not a best seller…

How much of this is true?
Of what is true? Are you referring to the one ‘fictional biography’ I made of myself? Maybe a little, maybe a lot, maybe all of it… I’m not going to tell you publicly.

You’re twisted.
Well, yeah most of us are. I think to be a writer or at least an interesting one, you have to be. You have to be able to put yourself in different places. If you’re not willing to go there mentally, don’t write about it.

I published a book

“Hippie Girl” is based on real events from my life. It’s fictionalized for legal and storytelling reasons.

‘Oh, you’re trying to cover you ass?’ Maybe. I mean, I still work at the place all the chaos and illegal shit went down. I recall asking a few people in the story of it was okay I’d use them such as my sister, husband, and mother. All the names have been changed too.

‘Why?’ To respect people’s privacy, legal reasons, and we don’t need the assholes to know I definitely wrote about them!

‘So then, what is it about?’ You have to read it to find out, haha. If you’ve been here awhile you have an idea. All my work together could create a version of this fucked up story.

But basically… this girl, Lila finds herself constantly in weird situations with guys. Her mother’s death definitely didn’t help any. It’s like she replaced one problem for another! Eventually, shit happens and she has to leave all of that behind.

‘Is Lila you?’ Yes and no. Yes, she goes through some shit I did. And no, that’s not my name and she’s a ‘fictional’ character.

‘What does your husband think?’ He wants to read it but I don’t think that’ll be a good idea. We talked about it’s context last night. He seemed to have forgot I had a threesome.

‘Why I didn’t publish it under my marital name?’ Well, for the fact I want to have my private life, private and I’m the only Sandra in this world I know of work that last name. I doubt I’ll ever be that big. But either way, I don’t want to be found! Whereas my maiden name, good luck! I also had this conversation with my mother before she passed and my husband before we married. My mother said, ’it’s your name, do what you want’.

‘What are you doing next?’ Honestly, I don’t know. If you want my honest opinion this story isn’t going to be successful. That’s okay, I knew that. It’s an odd story. Nobody knows who I am. It’s probably not that great. I didn’t even want to write it but it was a monkey on my back. Now the air is clear I can focus on things I actually want to write. It’s not about money. Nobody is paying me shit expect my employer!
 

What happened to the ‘Agent of Douche’

Nothing happened. Last time I saw him he was outside in camouflage doing something. I don’t know what or with who. It looked like he was by himself. That was probably three or four years ago when I was in college. I had to drive by his house because there wasn’t a better route. He looked very much alone like I knew he was. He didn’t have kids. He drove whatever female he had in his life out. He didn’t talk to his parents or siblings in the time we were together. He was an asshole to me and had a small pencil dick. That’s all I remember besides the ATV, dirt bike, motorcycle, hot tub, bonfires, and drinking. We had some fun but it wasn’t enough. He said I was stupid and an idiot. He said he wanted a housewife and it wasn’t me. I had no interest in ever being a housewife.

I wanted to do something with my life and not wait for some asshole man that’s fucking around. He had numerous online dating profiles. Once I haven’t seen him in a week and he smelled of sex. It definitely wasn’t me. I wanted to love him. I wanted him to change. But he didn’t. I looked at it like hey, I’m single too. I can go talk to other people, he is — and I did. That’s how I met my future husband. I went back to college and graduated. The very last time our eyes ever met was on the lake when he was patrolling. He asked me what I was doing there and I said I lived over there and pointed to a building. I was going back to school but not because of him. I went for myself.

And now, I’m an hour away from all that chaos. He’s probably still alone. Though I had very little faith he’d get the stick out of his ass and stop hating everyone and everything.