On Writers and Greed
I think writers are really greedy on some levels. Like it’s not enough that they get one waking life and another full of dreams and fantasies. No, no, no, they must invent extra lives and worlds and stock them with fake people and move them around like paper dolls and make car crash noises and mimic voices and help themselves to MOAR.
When things are going well with my writing, I’m just this hungry beastly creature.
After a day of good writing, I’ll go out and see things and people that are beautiful and want to shove them in my mouth.
Like, I wrote this sleazy post during such an episode.
When Adrian comes home from work, I jump up his leg and tell him every little dinky thought I had all day and tell him all my stories and feelings until he starts hiding beneath his issue of Motor Trend.
I’m all touchy and grabby, but what’s terrible is it’s not even specific, really, to Adrian as an individual. It’s all about me and my greedy gulping insanity. I just want want want want want.
Why would you ever want one of us as a partner? We don’t make any money and we gobble up everything like locusts. It’s so gross when I think about it.
Of course, whenever I’m in this phase? I don’t care. Or think. I just feel really, really good.