My youngest turns 16 in June and is understandably excited about the whole driving thing. So my husband found an inexpensive car … which turned into a story.

He called me about 10 miles east of the Ohio-Indiana border to let me know that the alternator on our old F350 pickup truck, which he was using to tow the “new” car, had stopped charging. But the truck still ran. So I told him to call me if he needed me to drive out to wherever he was to pick him up. About an hour later he called again. The truck, he said, had healed itself. The alternator was again charging.

“When I get home, I’m going to come inside and sit down,” he told me.

I agreed with that plan and replied, “You’ve used up your quota of luck.”

And, sure enough, he had. The next day the other son’s car broke down and had to be towed home.

But that’s not really what intended to write about today. This week’s blog was going to speak to writing what I don’t particularly like to read: new adult romances. Those late teens and early twenties are far, far behind me. In some ways, I miss them. Or I miss the energy, the thick mane of hair, and being able to eat whatever I wanted and not gain weight.

New adult romances have become really popular. As a general rule, they feature the more unpleasant stereotypes of the generation: squealing, promiscuous young people who overdramatize everything and happen to be experts in darned near everything. Really, until you hit 30 years old, you don’t have enough life experience to give me an opinion.

But the ever fertile brain started in on a new book concept that’s, yes, young adult. I guess my subconscious thinks that if I don’t like what’s out there, then maybe I ought to read something I would like.

My subconscious is funny like that.