I write. I blog. I journal. I sketch. I dream.
I have three screen plays the fight for my attention. Plus one under re-write that just won’t cooperate.
I have a journal that I handwrite in red ink. A sketch book that I draw in pencil.
I have an outline for a children’s book series, but I’m still developing the characters. And by developing, I mean dreaming.
And this blog has ten entries in draft stage. To be clear, the draft stage means it has a title, but no content. So, it’s safe to say, it’s a really rough draft stage.
I’m simultaneously reading two books that, of course, contradict each other. One book is about novel writing and the other claims that novel writing is dead.
All this while waiting to hear back from grad school to see if there’s a school out there that can mold me into a serious writer. I’m using the “stress” from the anticipation as my excuse to procrastinate. Like a virgin, I tell myself that I’m saving my best writing for a professor who will be touched for the very first time. I’m also using my daily attack of the mailbox and only finding bills to be an extra tortured writer. After riffling through the envelopes and not finding an acceptance letter, I collapse on the couch, hand to forehead, and proclaim to never write again.
I know my lack of focus has nothing to do with school. It’s not A.D.D., laziness, or Netflix. It’s my wardrobe.
The only way I’m going to get serious about writing is if I invest in all black wardrobe. Jackets, t-shirts, turtlenecks and pants. Everything. Black ballerina shoes. A little black dress, down to my ankles, for formal occasions. A few black hats and berets. A black cigarette holder. And, of course, black rimmed eyeglasses. Some accessories are essential. Weird necklaces and lots of bracelets, preferably Buddha beads to show depth. And, last, but not least, a pet. Something exotic. Possibly dangerous. Like a snake.
And, if the writing thing doesn’t work out, I can always make a career out of being a Bieber impersonator.