Writer

I remember thinking to myself one day, and then for a year on end that I would love nothing more than to be a writer.  To write books and be witty and charmingly cavalier like a young Hank Moody. There was a girl involved (there always is). So one day I started to write and I wrote and I wrote, sometimes more, sometimes less.  But never too much and it felt free and full and freshly new and exciting, like it was the only life for me.

Only after it was too late did I realize something, and it's still now just slowing dawning, this fact.  No writer ever known was ever known to be happy.  None of the great ones anyways (except maybe Dr. Seuss).  And nothing good or well worth the time was ever written without passion or at least a little tick-tick-tock of craziness. Or an eye twitch, or a death wish.  What the hell's wrong with me.

Every pen has it's muse.  Her face just changes occasionally (along with her name, and it never stays the same for too long).  C'est la vie.  Ma vie en femmes.