So yesterday, I had no focus. And I haven’t had any for awhile. Which always sucks for me. Because I can’t sleep, if I can’t write.

Well, a friend reminded me of a dare. See, she writes romance. Unlike a lot of people, I don’t look down on romance or erotica. It takes talent to write that stuff. I, frankly, suck at it. Romance writers (and I know quite a few) are just as dedicated to putting out a well written, engaging story as any other writer.

But a lot people, especially other writers, look down on them.

Anyway, she and I got into it one day (in a friendly way). Because as annoying as it is for people to put down romance, it’s equally annoying when romance writers sneer at writers who don’t write sex.

And there is was: “Sex is a natural act, that feels good, and regular orgasms are good for you health.”

My response: “So are daily bowel movements, but I don’t see romance writers describing those in detailed, purple prose.”

And my darling romance writer then typed the fateful words, “Well, if taking dump changed things as much as sex did, we would!”

Sure, I could have then gotten into medical drama and health concerns, but that’s not what I write. And I kind of maybe teased her that I would write a story where pooping would be a massive deal for my characters.

Which brings us back to yesterday, and me having zero focus.

“Write my shit story, Kate. Prove to me that pooping can be as important as sex to a story.”

3 hours and 2k words later, I had story. And one I can never, ever read to my husband.

Yup, fecal matter got me back on track. Now to finish this last series.