I just went to have a gigantic latte at Metropolis Coffee on Granville. All I can ask is, “Who are these people? Doesn’t anybody have a job around here?” They are packed at 10AM on a Thursday morning, absolutely packed full. Wow.
I tried to write, but I wasn’t feeling it. I whined some on paper–but that isn’t writing, that is whining. It is the same shit I say on the phone to my girlfriends. I am feeling intimidated by my alma mater. Let me rephrase that, I am intimidated that my alma mater is not Ivy League nor Five Sisters. I wasn’t feeling too much like I’ll never publish, then I went on Jennifer Weiner’s page and realized that she also went to Princeton.
Ugh. Every single thirty year old woman with a novel or two under her belt is from Princeton. Okay, maybe just three of them are, but none of them are from Millikin.
Then part of me says, “Not yet. But soon there will be a novelist from Millikin.” And then part of me says, “How can you write a novel when you can’t keep the dishes done for one day?” I know, I know–totally unrelated skills. But how can I write when there is a 1/2 finished bottle of squirt, two empty glasses, a can of diet coke and TWO empty tostidos bags staring at me. When there are these white walls staring at me. When my cat is staring at me and begging for attention and a new roommate. When, when, when.
When did writing get so damn intimidating?