I woke up this afternoon to all kinds of awesome. Ideas, that is. I finally have my life figured out. That’s right–done. I am going to online tutor for moolah, I am going to write some blogs for a little more cash, and I’m going to write romance novels. My life will revolve around the written word even more so and I will always be happy. I will also be a professional job applicant who is never called in for interviews. You know, just someone to give the people who look over resumes something to shred. Or send to their delete folder. I will do this for free out of the goodness of my heart.
As it turns out, I am qualified for nothing. I spent four years in college working my tail off and three years tutoring to come out with no skills except, ya know, I can write good. I have a BA in English, but this song was right all along. I feel like a total asshole for the seminars I hosted, bringing in people who have real jobs to talk to prospective graduates like when they go out into the world they too will get real jobs and become real people with real lives and more real stuff.
I would like some real please.
Instead I am here typing at midnight and will be up for at least four more hours because I don’t have to be awake tomorrow until…well I have a dinner date at 8:00pm.
I can’t really complain though: I love my life. I love waking up next to The Boyfriend. I wrote him a poem today which was inspired by this lady who I idolize and think is like a billion times funnier, blonde me. (I called The Boyfriend “The Boyfriend” before reading her blog, btw. Also, I had my hyperbole cartoon pre-knowing-about-her too. So there.) My friends who I also love are on the verge of graduating with degrees in actual things too such as journalism, teaching and computer-inter-technolo-webz so I can live off them if need be seeing as The Boyfriend is also working on his English degree. Hopefully, though, he never graduates and keeps his totally rad student job. Or gets an awesome job with the school and then marries me so I can have some health insurance.
Not that it matters because I’m about to start spitting out some world class sexy-time writing. Well, no, not really. This romance stuff is just as hard as I thought it’d be. That is to say, I’m freaking myself out trying to be good. Because readers deserve good writing and the only way any publisher is going to pick me up is if it’s good. Don’t get me wrong, though, I am not convinced this will be an easy task at all, I just need to hype myself up so I go through with it.
Being published would be my only actual ever dream coming true. Like, I have wanted things to happen before and worked towards goals and stuff, but I’ve never for so long desired, fantasized over, and made so many deals with the devil/promises to God I never intend to keep about as this being an author thing. Oh, I feel so teeny tiny when I say that like I’m looking up at the whole enormous world from an itty bitty stool, touching the tips of my fingers together in front of my mouth and gnawing on my inner lip and blinking giant eyes that take up my whole forehead. Not giant like creepy, but giant like cute and scared. Basically this is me as seen by what I imagine everything is when I think about my name on a book cover with my story inside:
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That would have been funnier if WordPress would let me put more whitespace between paragraphs, but whatever.
Never mind that, fucking Blogger LOVES ME and lets me do what I want!!!
Did you know I actually sent a short story into a magazine? Like almost a month ago. Uh hu. This is like a regular wait time though, so it’s not like they’ve rejected me and just decided to ignore me. Not yet. Not like all the possible employers I’ve applied to. They’ll get back to me. It hasn’t been that long. Not THAT long. Stop freaking out, okay? Jeez!
Okay, so this was a lot of hard work. Too much real. Thanks, world. It’s time for me to go eat some peanut butter and play video games. Yeay!
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