Some days I feel like I’m absolutely on the right track. That my books are necessary to stabilizing the economy of this great nation and it’s only a matter of time before I get published.
Other days (usually the same day) I feel like I’m a crazed coke-head (and by coke I mean diet coke) rationalizing why I need to write that one last chapter, even if it means bankruptcy and the dissolution of my marriage. I’m a writer for God’s sake! I must write!
No? We’re taking money from our savings account to pay for diapers? I spend every waking moment thinking about the sex life of my 16-year old main character, not my own?
Okay…that’s it. I’m quitting. I’m going to take a full time job as a social worker, trying to make OTHER people’s lives better and then work on memorizing the names of my husband and son.
And this is how my mind wanders…from being obsessed and in love with the craft of writing to being embarrassed and disgusted that I would even waste my time thinking this could go anywhere.
One day I expect my husband to come home and say, “Honey, all my life I’ve wanted to become a professional sheepherder. There is no schooling or a degree for it and only a 0.1 percent chance of even becoming one. What do you think!?”
Of course my response would be, “That’s wonderful, lovey! You just need to find a national organization of wannabee sheepherders, practice sheepherding with them, go out of town and spend thousands of dollars on sheepherder conferences and costumes for contests (wolf costumes, I presume) and sacrifice the love of your family so that you can become the sheepherder that you are!”
He would look at me with loving eyes, amazed at my ability to support him in his greatest of needs. Then I would add, “And if it works about by next week, you can come back home. NOW GO GET A JOB, SHEEP BOY!”
And so the moral of this story is: get your kid to stop pooping in his diapers so your sheepherder husband won’t give you a guilt trip about not having enough money. I’d be happy to address these issues with my husband and son…if only I could remember their names…
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1 comment:
I spend every waking moment thinking about the sex life of my 16-year old main character, not my own?
Ha ha!!!! Okay, yeah, that's me!!
Man, once you disappear inside of your head there is just no coming out.
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