andom writings about nothing at all. Or everything ever.
Fuck it. It’s never going to happen. I’ll just be a copywriter for a pharmaceutical advertising agency until I die. Certainly it pays better than being a novelist. No need to delusionally continue to chase lifelong dreams of being an author. Clearly it’s a waste of time for me.
Read MoreIt read like the journal entry of a struggling hack grappling with emotional, intellectual and creative insecurities through the fog of her narcissism. It did not read like a professional person cooly evaluating her strengths and weaknesses, her accomplishments and her shortcomings in the course of executing her work. I could see my boss rolling his eyes as he read it.
Read MoreIn recent years bookstores have become increasingly vexing and anxious spaces for me. What used to be places of peace are now fraught with urgency; not about which books to read, which should be the only anxiety one has in a bookstore, but rather my continual failure to finish any one of my fucking three novel manuscripts.
Read MoreBecause I wanted to be exactly like her, nail art and all, I decided that I, too, would one day write erotica on the side, and thus pave my road to financial security, whilst I toiled at meaningful novels and dark short stories.
Read MoreIf I thought my DFW infection was bad after reading a short story collection or two, steeping myself in the likes of Infinite Jest is proving catastrophic to my productivity.
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