I have pretensions of becoming a novelist, of course - like any self-loathing high-verbal with too much belly, no bicep, a receding hairline, threadbare work ethic, and some postgraduate schooling under his belt.
It is only today that this idiotic story has begun to display pretensions of becoming a novel.
If I finish this thing, even just a draft, I'm going to send a letter to Stephen King thanking him for On Writing, and I'll give myself another buzz cut in honor of John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist (his Protestant work ethic and monkish approach to the work of writing is quite at odds with my every aesthetic impulse, but the book is a jewel - now if I could only find the fucking thing).
I will communicate my gratitude to Ann Lamott for Bird By Bird via telepathy, since she's got that New Age vibe and all, and I will send Dave Sim a photocopy of my Pendulous Publishers wall calendar with the daily word count marked on it.
All that if and if and if I...y'know. I've spent the day eating pizza, writing, reading, listening to music (oh man Slanted and Enchanted is a great album that I'm ashamed never to have listened to until today). It has been a marvelous day.
I am in real danger of becoming less unhappy. (Oh and these glasses!)
