someone with a really really really fancy job asked me the other day what i do for a living. i told her i'm a writer.
oh? what have you written?
and that is exactly when my stomach clenched and my breath caught on one of my ribs and i bit my bottom lip so my cutie dimple appeared. i call it a dimple even though it is not actually a dimple. it is a chicken pox scar. and yes, that thought went through my head at the same exact moment as the thought that sounds a lot like i call myself a writer even though i am not exactly a writer.
i hate when that thought busts in.
i get paid for writing. but magazine articles and speeches and words for other people...oh, i forget all about those the moment i give them away. easy come, easy go.
to me, books make a writer real.
perched on the left corner of my desk are three and a half unfinished proposals. good stories. one could be great. none you've ever heard before. one i'm not sure i should tell. which makes me want to tell it. a lot.
back to that woman with the really really really fancy job. i almost told her that i write nonsense. nothing of consequence. truthfully, i bet i almost told her about my dimple.
but i didn't. i think i waved my hand away and escaped the convo with something like "oh, probably nothing you've read..."
one of my friends with a really really really cool job asked me what i was writing lately. after i told him, i could feel his shrug through the internet. "we all prostitute ourselves at some point in our careers," he replied. gulp. hey...have you ever been back to look at the sweeterie? remember that? man, i spent about an hour there yesterday. some lovely images over there, i am not afraid to say. speaking of lovely images, i leave you with a quote from uncle sugar in response to the friendship bracelet cuh-razy train, on which i am an enthusiastic traveler. also, i would very much like to find this watch and make it my own. it's me, yes? say yes, please. xoxo.