Melodramatic, attention-needy personality seeks public platform from which to spew her narcissistic exaggerations
Oh, hey. So, I went on a blog-battical and got all spiritual with my unholy self and the one thing I learned about that was: it was boring. I began talking to owls. I am not making this up.
I have this paperweight owl and I gave him a name: Monsieur LaFarge. Then I crocheted him a cap and scarf. Yes, I literally crocheted a cap and scarf for my PAPERWEIGHT. Then I made up all these stories about Monsieur LaFarge and posted some of them on Instagram.
BECAUSE I HAZ ALL THESE WORDS AND I NEED TO PUT THEM SOMEWHERE. It's an affliction right up there with craving a cigarette when I've never even smoked. But I digress.
What I'm trying to say is that I was blogging on Instagram and it was NOT as satisfying as blogging here on mine own blog so I'm back here because doggone it, I like blogging. And no matter where I go I seem to blog. I blog in my sleep. I blog in my journal.
Speaking of my journal, last week I got a letter from my writing hand.
It was all: "Dear EE, As much as we, the members of your writing hand, think it's super inspiring that you are taking a break from blogging and whatever, we ask you to please consider returning to it. We are cramping. We have calluses. We miss the good old days of clickety-clacking on a keyboard from the ergonomic comfort of that wrist-pillow-thingy. We like that pillow. We miss it. We are weary of waking at 4:30am to hand-write all your words into your journals. With all due respect, you have a LOT of words. We can't keep up. We keep up better when we type, is all we're saying. Just a thought. Just sayin'. Just in case, you know, you wanna blog or sumfin Much Love, Your Old, Middle-Aged Hand."
The final tipping point came when I walked into a craft store because I was gonna re-invent myself as.....a porcelain doll maker. Why yes, I've always WANTED to be a porcelain doll maker, thankyouverymuch. I was the only person registered for the class. The teacher was 90 years old. The store looked like it had been frozen in 1982 right around the time denim jumpers got popular. I saw a huge, three foot porcelain doll decked out in yards of yellowed, dusty ruffles and I felt like I was seeing Miss Havisham frozen in porcelain flesh.
I yelled: "AAAAUGGGHHHHH!" which was quickly followed by a panic attack, sweating through my shirt and cramming like 5 sticks of gum in my mouth so I wouldn't cuss and scare the kind, unsuspecting old ladies sewing cat quilts in the next room.
I drove home sobbing melodramatically about how I'm a failure at MAKING PORCELAIN DOLLS WHICH I'VE LOVED ALL MY LIFE WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? and then I was like: "Oh, cheer up ol' chap! You're not a failure at blogging!" (Why yes, I have a British man living in my head who speaks to me in an accent and says things like "cheer up, old chap.")
So, then I stopped crying. Because British accents make everything better.
Because if I blog, then I won't think about what an abysmal flop my book is. Ok, maybe Abysmal Flop is being melodramatic. Maybe I just want you to say: "Don't beat yourself up, EE. It's not a FLOP! Have you read all the thank you letters recently?"
OK, here's the thing about my brain. I would consider my book an abysmal flop even if it was an NYT bestseller. THAT'S how awesome it is inside my brian.
I just wrote Brian. That's how awesome it is inside my Brian. And I'm not even going to correct it.
And also, if I blog out my words then I won't be so tempted to go read (and re-read and pace and bite my nails and then read them again) the Amazon reviews that SOME PEOPLE WRITE. You know, stuff like how I'm an annoying attention-seeking personality and also, how I exaggerate things and how I should be donating any money I'm making from my book to abuse recovery centers.
Allow me to correct one little thing (Ok, a few things): I HAVEN'T MADE ONE PENNY YET. Yes, it's this thing called an "advance"--like getting pre-paid before you write the book. And then if--and ONLY IF--you manage to sell enough copies to "make back" the money the publishing house already paid you (which I haven't), well, then maybe in like five years I'll get some royalty checks. Also, if we averaged my advance money over the amount of time it took me to write the book---well, let's just put it this way: I WOULDN'T STILL BE SERVING AS A WAITRESS IF WRITING BOOKS MADE AUTHORS RICH.
Rest assured, dear reviewers, that as soon as I make a penny on my book, I'll make a donation to charity. By which I mean: I will pay for more therapy for MYSELF.
So, hey. I'm back. Back to my narcissistic blog. Back to my MELODRAMATIC ways. Oh, look. 5 people on Facebook are super unimpressed.
p.s. I don't mean to exaggerate but NOTHING WHATSOEVER in this post is exaggerated.
p.p.s. also, I'm still thirty pounds heavier than I was last year at this time which just goes to show you that taking blog-batticals doesn't make you skinny. WHO KNEW.