Mama Said Knock You Out

When I graduated from Queen's and was unemployed for two months, I started writing a Harlequin romance novel. This was a fun project because:

a) I've never actually read a Harlequin (or any romance novel)
b) Writing sex scenes = hilarious and
c) My book was about an attorney-cum-spy named Eve Stratton who looked suspiciously like Bettie Page and put James Bond to shame with her promiscuity. Also, Ms. Stratton was obsessed with boxing.

The working title? "Knockout". (I know, I know.)


"Keep yer dukes up or smell my
leather, sissyboy!"

Anyway, I made it to chapter 2 1/2 or so before I got bored, but I was half-thinking of resurrecting it this summer, just for the hell of it.

Unfortunately for both myself and Eve Stratton, this whole female boxer thing has gotten pretty freaking trendy. I recently read something about Paul Kariya's sister, a competitive female boxer. A few friends have been taking boxing classes. And, of course, there's Million Dollar Baby (which, despite the horrific incidents within it, inspired me to wail away on a punching bag at the gym earlier today.)

Anyone who knows me is aware of my extreme dislike of sports (watching and participating) and knows how completely non-confrontational and passive I am...but I go apeshit for boxing.

Sweaty, muscle-bound athletes pummeling each other while blood and saliva (and, if we're really lucky, teeth) fly through the air...honestly, what's not to love?

(Now playing: "David Watts", The Jam)