(no subject)
You know, I can't sleep, so I was lying there thinking... writing is so not a glamorous profession. Being a writer can be glamorous, but only when you're not actually writing; the literal act of putting down words isn't very interesting to watch. You could never have, like, The Phantom of the Fiction Workshop, where some deformed, disgruntled professor-wannabe lived in the subterranean tunnels below, like, the student center or something, and, like, came and kidnapped me from my dorm to take me down to his underground print shop, where we would write the Noveeeeellas of the Niiiiight. Because we would be sitting there arguing over who got the laptop, because I can't write longhand anymore, absolutely cannot, and then possibly he would have to risk life and limb to get another laptop rather than listen to my constant, pointed observations that my RIGHT HAND IS CRAMPING UP AGAIN (ARE THESE THE ONLY PENS YOU HAVE?), and possibly he would have to murder one of the computer science guys to get it. And that's just not cool. And let's not even talk about the actual writing. We'd be sitting there in our pajamas with a half-eaten pizza and a bottle of Aristocrat, tippity-tapping away at our keyboards, and every three minutes he'd be like, "Where are you now? How many pages do you have? Are you on a new chapter yet?," and I'd be like, "I swear to God--work on your own thing, man," and he'd be like, "I can't, I have writer's block," and I'd be like, "How can you possibly have writer's block? You're freakin' holed up under the Spanish department sleeping on newspapers and eating stray cats--isn't that enough to write about, Mr. I Am the Angel of Writing?," and he'd be like, "Uh... maybe I should be the Angel of Editing," and I'd be like, "OH HELL NO," and I'd end up using my student ID to unlock the door, you know, like that credit card trick, while he was out stealing another carton of NutraGrain bars from the caf, and escape back to the dorm. And then he'd get so mad he'd try to win me back by crashing my next open-mike night with his scathing three-hundred-page novel/manifesto about the empty emptiness of modern existence and the futility of keeping it real in a materialistic world and you know what the saddest thing would be? Nobody at the reading would notice anything out of the ordinary. They'd just roll their eyes and order another Tazo chai.