Dear World,
I have recently fallen under the spell of a crippling depression that I like to blame on the fact that I will soon turn 26. More specifically, I will soon become a 26-year-old unpublished writer.
I like that typing this on the internet makes it seem less awful, silly even. I suddenly feel like I have time. It isn't a question of age so much as a question of endurance. How long are you willing to chase a dream that probably seems banal, childish and hopeless to everyone but you?
I've decided to lug out a whopper I cranked out a couple years back. I didn't title it at the time, but lately I've been thinking of it as "Madame Curie's Got Tits." What kind of awful, awful excuse for a writer comes up with a story title like this? Me apparently. (Although, I admit I like it slightly better after finally seeing it in print.) It isn't an idea I can get rid of. It's been percolating in the nooks and crannies of my brain. I wake up with it on the tip of my tongue: "madame curie's got tits madame curie's got tits madame curie's got tits..." Then I gape in horror at my bitch-slapped alarm clock before making the mad dash to work.
So I've decided to honor my psyche's wish to produce a re-vamped shitty first draft (there is no way in hell this is a "revision" yet) in the hopes of creating the beginnings of a publishable piece. That and getting the worms out of my brain.
Most sincerely,
canoli
