Inside this hardened, speculative fiction and historical fiction loving soul there is a chick lit book waiting to escape. I have the scenario in my head. I have characters semi-developed. I even have a killer opening (no, not literally, but that would be pretty awesome, if an entirely different genre).

Thing is, I don’t read chick lit. By and large, I don’t even read romances (I read stories where there are romantic relationships, but they aren’t the focus). In the last year, the most chicky-typical book I read was PS I Love You (Alexander McCall Smith’s books don’t count). By and large, my reading selections are more along the spy story, black comedy or classic route than traditionally girl books.

I’m not familiar with the genre. I really don’t want to read too many of the books within the genre–by and large they don’t appeal to me. But I have a story in my head that I must tell. I’m sure it will be filed away with countless other tales to be told, fermenting and biding its time until one day when it attacks me, springing forth with teeth bared, wearing designer stilettos.