I am not cool.
I am a poseur who pretends to be cool whilst saying things like “whilst”.
My hair right now is fugly.
My clothes are all from 1999, except for my underwear, which is older.
My hands are getting really wrinkly and I’m not even old.
I can’t seem to get pregnant again.
I write and I write and I write and I write but I don’t know what my niche is. And please don’t tell me it’s high-tech marketing writing. Because high-tech marketing writing is cool and everything, but it’s not a niche. It’s not The Goat or Who is Sylvia. It’s not Anastasia Krupnik. It’s not A Life Less Ordinary.
Maybe I should write plays.
Maybe I should go back to work.
Maybe I should go eat a bowl of ice cream.
Argh. I’m having another one of those angsty moments. A moment when I get this brilliant flash of something. It says things like, “Don’t miss your chance.” “you’re a good writer, but what have you done lately” “get off your butt and go to a writers conference and network so you can get your novel published” “write a play. someone will stage it.” etc.
Then when the brilliant flash fades away, I’m left with paralysis. Which way do I go? What do I do? How do I do it? And instead of acting on any of my impulses, I go and sit in a chair in the Toychest That Threw-Up (aka my living room) and I read Entertainment Weekly and drink off-brand bottled water.
I best go eat some ice cream right now.
pity party over.