My husband is always my first reader. He reads the chapters of my novel as I write them. He reads my flash fiction before I post it. He reads everything I write. We’d been talking about some of my work the other day when he said something that completely surprised me.
“You don’t write happy stories, do you?” he asked.
“Ye-es,” I said. “I write lots of happy stories. This week’s flash fiction is happy.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is! William and Theo–”
I paused while I considered. “Okay, probably not. And the ending isn’t happy. But what about last week’s story? Judy killed the vampire and–”
“–and Charles is a virgin. Not happy.”
“O-kay… How about the one before? About Charlene? Yes, things are pretty rotten but she meets the guy of her dreams in the end.”
“Happy ending. Not a happy story.”
“How about the one where–”
“What about when the tooth fairies destroy the world?”
He didn’t even answer. He just looked at me.
“Fine.” I pouted.
“It’s okay, it’s not a bad thing. You just don’t write happy stories.”
“Yeah… Well… Happy stories are boring, anyway.”