June 5, 2001
I'm obsessed with the present at the...present. Why not post about it?
The past two weeks, I've been struggling with this article. I drove to
Stanford to do some interviews, I've done some research online, and
I've been revising, revising, revising. It's driving me mad.
This doesn't guarantee acceptance and publication. And this
doesn't mean I'll get any giant compensation with publication,
because, if I may paraphrase a classic movie, getting paid for writing
is worth "jack, and shit, and jack just skipped town."
Still, I choose this life, sort of, or it choose me, and I just have
to run with it. At least, until I run out of money.
As a birthday present to myself, I dunked my head in some bleach to
come up with this:
Admittedly, I had help from a friend. She has pictures of me in saran wrap and tin foil. So I'm sure they'll pop up eventually. Quite possible when I annoy her too much. Speaking of women, I could talk about my love life, but that requires one. And I'm not a good enough ficiton writer to invent it. So I could talk about my life as a fiction writer, but that requires one to write fiction, and I've been too busy trying to finish this article. Go back to the top of this page, and repeat as necessary...
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