Occasionally, Caroline, my wife, and I drive to St. Martin's College a few miles from our home to make use of their modern and cavernously quiet library for writing stints and to escape the allure of the internet and the siren call of reality TV.
Last night was one of those times. We settled into the reading room and I pounded out a quick 1000 words (I'm becoming increasingly fond of sexualizing my writing, why say "typed" when you can say "pounded," "drove home," or, even, "spewed?"). Now those thousand words consisted of an incendiary sex scene between Amanda and her lover, who just so happens to be a werewolf. Like most of her passionate experiences, this one did not end well, not tragically, just well, embarrassingly and as so happens, it was prolonged and uncomfortable. Just like I like 'em.
Anyway, so I'm writing this truly filthy stuff and in walks one of the monastic brothers. He grabs a magazine and sits down nearby to read. I stop mid sentence. It's like I was physically unable to continue with a scene involving werewolf haunches, dog references and getting "locked up."
I had no choice, I instantly start composing this blog. Was I ashamed, I wonder? Maybe, or did the flowing black robes pose as much a distraction as a livejournal post or Frenchy on I Love Money.
Got me thinking. Why aren't there reality shows involving clergy? And if there were, what would they be called?
America's Next Top Jesuit? Make Me a Supernun?