Fourth in a Five Part Series: The Fucked Up Things Writers Think
Your best friend from graduate school gets a poem in The New Yorker. Your husband sells his third novel, you have yet to complete your first. Your shrink wonders out loud if this writer’s block is all in your head. HELLO?! Your father wants to know when you’ve had enough of this nonsense. The most handsome guy at a Paris Review Party doesn’t acknowledge your presence in a conversation circle while regaling the close knit group about his adventures in Hollywood (George Clooney optioned his book and is starring in the movie.) You watch Little Women and wish you were Winona Ryder. You watch Girl, Interrupted and wish you were Winona Ryder. You watch Heathers and you wish you were dead. The New Yorker announces its 20 under 30. If only they published 40 over 50. Your chin looks like a battle ground. You lose your Moleskin in a Starbucks. Two pages a day. Just two pages a day. Ta-tum ta-tum ta-tum ta-tum. What did you have, how did you lose it. You have sex more often than you write! And you never have sex. You need to get away. You need to stay put. You need to read poetry. You used to write poetry for fuck’s sake. You need to draw and quarter any writer within a ten mile radius who gets published, has a successful single Kindle, loves their agent, finds writing cathartic, carries around a yoga mat in the middle of the day and drinks soy venti grande low fat skinny jeans.
What are you thinking?
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