Last year at about this time, my publisher gave me a challenge.“We want to try some women’s fiction for the Rapid Reads line,” she said. “So I need a book from you by June.”
Huh? Me, the scribe of mob comedy, write Chicklit? Romance? Okay, can I make it funny, I asked? Luckily they went thumbs up. And so Worst Date Ever comes out in September this year.
More on that later. This column is about something else.
Point being, all this writing-out-of-genre caused me to think about what would happen if Gina Gallo, the original mob goddaughter, were to be dragged kicking and screaming out of crime, and plunked right down into another genre. Or three. So here goes.
(on a stage coach near you)
Gina: “Please move over. You’re taking up two seats.”
Bad guy Cowboy: “Hey little lady. You can sit right here on my lap. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing with that mighty big revolver, anyway?”
Gina (demonstrating): <BLAM>
Cowboy drops to the floor.
(in a seriously spooky old manor)
Fiendish male character, rubbing hands together: “You’ll never escape me, my pretty. Never!”
Gina (looking around): “Are you sure this isn’t a set for The Rocky Horror Picture Show?”
Fiend: “Enough! You’ll be my wife with or without the church.”
Gina (sighing): <BLAM>
Fiend drops to the floor.
(at a slam poetry evening)
Male Poet: “Stop.Cry.Laugh.Love not war.Peace not profit.Climate change.Capitalists.Love crimes.War crimes.Killing oceans.Killing whales.Every other cliché you can think of.Pain.I’m in pain.A pain so great.
Poet is out of pain, and so is everyone else.
To be continued…