Wednesday, June 15, 2011


So it has come to this.

My genius plan to support myself as a crafter/designer until I finished a writing project resulted in handbags that no one wanted to look at, much less buy.

“Semi” employment has turned into something more like tertiary employment. (I know that's not the way the word "tertiary" should be used. I'm doing it anyway.)

House sitting actually costs money, rather than the other way around.

After four months and roughly $1,000 of repairs, I have learned that my engine has a terminal illness.

My novel, that was maybe going to be a screenplay, if that seemed like it worked better, turns out to be both unreadable AND unwatchable. Apparently making it up as you go results in a plot entirely too much like real life to be gripping, no matter how many tentacled monsters you throw in.

So I guess I'm writing a blog.

I hate blogs.

I hate the word—“blog” sounds like something horrible that a surgeon removes from your insides, like a bezoar, only it's alive and slowly consuming you, and possibly eating your soul. I hate the concept—why is so much writing talent devoted to the literary equivalent of a reality show?

Hmmm, maybe I could write a horror film about a bezoar that's alive?

I hate that my generation's major cultural achievement is babbling about oneself to total strangers.

I actually like reading blogs a lot. But I was trying to be above writing one myself.

I spent nearly a year on that plotless novel. It wasn't even that ambitious a novel—after nearly a year's work, I failed to at writing a lowbrow, unoriginal, monsters-and-explosions space opera.

So, realizing I should probably stop pretending I'm above much of anything, here I am.

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