So here I am, sitting on my sofa in a pair of size 100 pink, velour pants, hitting on the keyboard per usual. Being a writer is a very glamorous life choice. I recommend it if you have proclivities towards isolation and insanity. My dog, aka Kiki the Wonder Dog, hasn’t had a bath for quite awhile and as she snoozes next to me I remind myself for the umpteenth time to haul her into the shower.
Sam, my boyfriend, is off at work and I’m supposed to be writing (which I am…kind of) and sending letters to agents (see the Day One page), but it’s not happening. I’ve been working my other job like a mad demon and my brain is mush-mush-McMush. All I want to do is eat some ice cream and watch a movie or seven. Is 11am too early for ice cream? I say no.
This is my blog. Welcome to the world that lies within! For the next several months I’ll be documenting just how fabulous it is to be me…and by fabulous I mean, ridiculous. Why didn’t I become a doctor or a lawyer or a television evangelist? Anything seems better these days than being a novelist with her second, UNPUBLISHED novel. But times, they are a’changing and I can feel it in the wind. Soon, I will be photographed in my underwear by Annie Leibovitz for the cover of Vanity Fair. PerezHilton will slam me for looking like a 1980’s whore in said photo shoot. Women will gather to burn their bras and read my nonsense aloud. (This doesn’t really have anything to do with the photo shoot, but I’d like it to happen anyway.) Oprah will extol my virtues and tag me with her book club’s seal of approval. I can’t wait.
Until then…xoxxo, Sara
