Why do none of my fucking pens work? I'm going to slit my wrists and start scribbling notes in my own blood.
I've decided that the children should start either hunting and gathering in the yard or fishing through dumpsters for sustenance. Ungrateful little hellions.
Three weeks from today. That's my deadline. There will either be a manuscript or an aneurysm. Odds are 50/50 right now.
The Holidays are the Time for a Cloyingly Sweet Salad
50 minutes ago
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I suggest adding a throwaway scene of an ungrateful urchin cruelly devoured. But just one, because I learned to my great displeasure that you do not write books motivated by your least pleasant emotions.
ReplyDeleteIn fact, maybe in a couple of years one of your sons' friends will turn to him and say 'Hey Orpheus, there's this guy in this book I was reading who gets his throat ripped out and I swear he's a dead ringer for you!' And he'll go 'Yeah, apparently I'm going to die like that! That's what my mom says.' Presumably this will be followed by 'Lucky.'
Remember, your strength is your greatest asset. Nourish and rest yourself evenly, and quench your brain regularly with mood music and other forms of inspirational art!
I want you to slam this book down on the publisher's desk, and as he reaches out to open it a dark claw emerges from the pages to grab his hand, forcing him to sign a contract with you in his own blood. In ten years I expect to see posters of you reading 'I own all y'all's vampire novels, bitches!'
I have a novel started about a woman who runs away from her family and won't tell them where she is. Whenever I talk about it, the S/O says, "Oh, is that the book that's not about me?"
ReplyDeleteThere are days I think it's very fortunate that no one can actually see inside my head...