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Many people have told me that I should be writing a novel. I admit, I’ve always wanted to write one. I get these visions of Steinbeck and his perfect pencils.  I see a smoke-filled room: the smokier the room becomes, the more engrossed the writer with an idea. All time is forgotten and upon returning to the here and now, things have carried on with themselves.  That is so not my life.

Even if I could shut myself away for hours to create a fictional life, my real life would punch me in the face as soon as I finished. There would be dirty clothes lying on the floor, empty water bottles forgotten, every cereal bowl getting crusty in the sink, and random sticky spots  from errant drops of tea or juice left to be stepped in. My life is not conducive to writing the next piece of classic literature.  I’m certain the best I could do at this moment is a tame limerick.

Sometimes, I think all I need to do is think of a plot. Just a simple plot, then the words would flow. What do I WANT to happen? It’s all up to me, but I can’t even begin thinking about what I want imaginary people to do when I can’t figure the same out for myself.  Why can’t my life have an author? I want someone to tell me what to do. I want fun, exorbitant adventures and to fall in love with the super intelligent, beautiful loner in the bookstore. Dammit. I want a GOOD story line. If there IS someone writing the story of my life, that person is a twisted asshole.  Yo! Dude! You can take a smoke break….

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