I been had, Fam. Hoodwinked. Bamboozled.
When I downloaded the PDF brochure selling me the dream life of an author, I swear I envisioned me rocking a white knit wool sweater, sipping hot cocoa (with marshmallows) and penning my Pulitzer prize-winning, New York Times bestselling novel by a fireplace in my log cabin in Maine.
Instead, I dwell in a small one bedroom apartment with my dear, sweet husband in Hollywood…Scratch that…Los Angeles…Why am I tripping?… Koreatown.
Between our neighbors blaring Mariachi music and the mysterious rent-increasing fees that keep creeping up, it’s not exactly the picturesque setting of my dreams, O.K.?
In fact, just this Monday, I was complaining to a friend about this travesty.
“WHY CAN’T I JUST WRITE AND GET PAID FOR A LIVING? WHY DO I HAVE TO HUSTLE? I MEAN, SERIOUSLY, DON’T FOLKS KNOW HOW TALENTED I AM?”
My friend , bless her heart, waited patiently for me to finish my rant. Then, laughed in my face. No one, she said, gets to live the life the brochure promises. Especially not now, thanks to our economy.
I knew she was right, of course. Still, the stubborn mule that I am, I wanted to argue.
But I couldn’t .
Because tantrum aside, how I was feeling had nothing to do with my physical location. See, Fam, the only setting that really matters is my head space. And I have to admit ever since I committed to being an author, the foundation for my cerebral real estate has been down right shaky.
Make sense? Probably not. So, how about I jump in my time machine and let my articulate September 2011 self explain it — i apologize.
BTW, when you’re redirected to read the post, feel free to rummage around my Address: House of Corrections blog to read behind the words and other posts I wrote that chronicle the journey I took with my first novel.
And be rest assured, Fam. I’m done with my little pity party, so you don’t have to worry. As you read this, I’m feverishly working on the follow-up to A:HC, The Mailman’s Daughter and I am planning to publish it next year.
Mariachi music will NOT keep me down. LOL! I’m an author damn it! And I will get my log cabin. Trust!
Thank ya, Fam, for your patient ears. I’m done ranting now. How do you push past your expectations?