What menace lurks beneath this calm exterior? It is my boss.
On Mondays I have clinical depression. On Tuesdays, I have the kind of depression where some natural light and a healthy diet might help. On Wednesdays, I am getting emotionally ready for Thursday, which is when I start to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Friday is exciting, Saturday is great, but Sunday I am already thinking about Monday when my boss will behave like the wild animal he is tearing chaotically through my work space in a disorderly fashion spewing out directions like, "Rooaar! Do this now!!" or "Aaaargh! I needed this yesterday but I've been sitting on it for two weeks so you could have the pleasure of working on it last minute under pressure!!"
I have decided there is only one solution to this debacle. I have to write the kind of novel that will sell. I was going to make the sequel for my first novel even artier than the first. But we can't all be Chuck Pahlaniuk. Maybe I should stop holding out and just give in to the temptation to believe that the subject of finding Mr. Right while wearing important shoes is a viable art form. I mean, just think of the craft behind the following sentence, "I was wearing my newest pair of ballet flats--the satiny stripey ones--trying to hail a cab and balance a latte when I saw him. He lived in my building and had one of those [insert name of trendy dog breed here]." Or, maybe what the world really needs is a chick-lit choose-your-own adventure novel.
I would allow the reader to engage fully in the story by asking her to choose between ultra-important options like skinny jeans or bootcut. For example. The only impediment to this wonderful opportunity I'm creating for myself, of course, is my gag reflex. I just do not think I could make it through 250 pages of husband-angling. So I guess I will have to suck it up and stick with the dictaphone. Yes, I said dictaphone. Also, we have dial up.
But I am not bitter. Bitter is for pussies. I am brave.
I have decided there is only one solution to this debacle. I have to write the kind of novel that will sell. I was going to make the sequel for my first novel even artier than the first. But we can't all be Chuck Pahlaniuk. Maybe I should stop holding out and just give in to the temptation to believe that the subject of finding Mr. Right while wearing important shoes is a viable art form. I mean, just think of the craft behind the following sentence, "I was wearing my newest pair of ballet flats--the satiny stripey ones--trying to hail a cab and balance a latte when I saw him. He lived in my building and had one of those [insert name of trendy dog breed here]." Or, maybe what the world really needs is a chick-lit choose-your-own adventure novel.
I would allow the reader to engage fully in the story by asking her to choose between ultra-important options like skinny jeans or bootcut. For example. The only impediment to this wonderful opportunity I'm creating for myself, of course, is my gag reflex. I just do not think I could make it through 250 pages of husband-angling. So I guess I will have to suck it up and stick with the dictaphone. Yes, I said dictaphone. Also, we have dial up.
But I am not bitter. Bitter is for pussies. I am brave.
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