When people ask me what I am, I tell them I'm a writer. I consider this a perfectly legitimate response because a) I have a "creative writing" folder on my desktop (that hasn't been touched in about eleventy-two months), b) I've won awards (tiny, no cash prizes, no publications, but my Mommy is proud), c) and my history professor read my essay aloud to the class (and while it was technically required and technically not at all creative but instead on the similarities and differences between the early American colonies while remaining utterly chock full of art and emotion that I deserved it so just SHUT UP, I love you).
I dream that someday I will be sitting over lattes with an avid and cunning young interviewer, describing my newest bestseller with drawling prose and languid hand gestures. At one point, gently egging me towards the contemptuous fit of a narcissistic artiste, the young woman coyly mentions critical reviews questioning the artistic integrity of the book whose writing I ostensibly attributed to the school of decadent writing. I'll chuckle and shake my head, looking across the street to where the glossy cover of my novel winks at me through the front window of Barnes & Noble. "Oh, honey," I'll murmur, "I hardly intended for it to be the next War and Peace. I've always held that a major role of fiction is escapism, and I think I've managed to craft something which both provides a light and compelling break from life without being insulting to the reader's intelligence." I'll cock a brow and mischievously add, "Surely no coffee house Pulitzer will deny that?" before taking a satisfying sip of my beverage.
(In case you were wondering, this is usually the part in my daydream when Freddie Mercury picks me up so we can go leotard shopping and I'm fed Rainbow Goldfish by Margo Channing.)
The cool, elitist self confidence and best seller are equally out of my reach for the present, however. This has more to do with the fact that I'd actually have to, ya know, spend time writing rather than any real lack of talent on my part (I hope. I lie.). It doesn't matter how often I put a pen to paper, I am a writer simply because I want to be. I use school hours to jot down impossible scenarios in my notebook when the lecture gets boring, I've stayed up into the wee hours of the morning chasing down a plot bunny that trails off into oblivion, I draw from my experiences to mold something new and wonderful to share with others -- so give me my BA in Writing and put up some dough to back my youthful caprices!
And if anyone asks for a sample, I'll brush up whatever that thing was I did two years ago.
I dream that someday I will be sitting over lattes with an avid and cunning young interviewer, describing my newest bestseller with drawling prose and languid hand gestures. At one point, gently egging me towards the contemptuous fit of a narcissistic artiste, the young woman coyly mentions critical reviews questioning the artistic integrity of the book whose writing I ostensibly attributed to the school of decadent writing. I'll chuckle and shake my head, looking across the street to where the glossy cover of my novel winks at me through the front window of Barnes & Noble. "Oh, honey," I'll murmur, "I hardly intended for it to be the next War and Peace. I've always held that a major role of fiction is escapism, and I think I've managed to craft something which both provides a light and compelling break from life without being insulting to the reader's intelligence." I'll cock a brow and mischievously add, "Surely no coffee house Pulitzer will deny that?" before taking a satisfying sip of my beverage.
(In case you were wondering, this is usually the part in my daydream when Freddie Mercury picks me up so we can go leotard shopping and I'm fed Rainbow Goldfish by Margo Channing.)
The cool, elitist self confidence and best seller are equally out of my reach for the present, however. This has more to do with the fact that I'd actually have to, ya know, spend time writing rather than any real lack of talent on my part (I hope. I lie.). It doesn't matter how often I put a pen to paper, I am a writer simply because I want to be. I use school hours to jot down impossible scenarios in my notebook when the lecture gets boring, I've stayed up into the wee hours of the morning chasing down a plot bunny that trails off into oblivion, I draw from my experiences to mold something new and wonderful to share with others -- so give me my BA in Writing and put up some dough to back my youthful caprices!
And if anyone asks for a sample, I'll brush up whatever that thing was I did two years ago.
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