Someone called me a “real writer” today, and not as a joke! I haven’t felt like a writer in a while, though — writers write, and I haven’t really been doing that, except for here, which … doesn’t count for some reason? OK, that’s crazy talk.
And then I don’t have time to write a proper post today because I had other paid writing obligations, which I somehow also don’t count as real writing? Because it’s paid labor? Wait a minute, what?
You know, if I stop to think about what I think, I realize how crazypants it is. Remember what I was saying about my brain being the worst? Prime example.
Me: Why isn’t this “real writing”?
My brain: Because you do it for fun.
Me: So why aren’t the book reviews “real writing”?
Brain: Because it’s not the writing you want to be doing.
Me: OK, smartypants, what writing do I want to be doing?
Brain: Hell if I know. You figure it out.
Me: You remind me of the babe.
Brain: What babe?
Me: The babe with the power.
Brain: What power?
Me: The power of voodoo!
Brain: … I see where this is going. Good day to you.
Me: But…
Brain: I SAID GOOD DAY.
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