I didn’t even want to do this.
I got guilted into this… guilted or threatened. I’m not sure. They seem so similar to me. Either way it worked: I’m writing. And that’s not a bad thing – I need all the practice I can get.
It’s hard. I’ve been trying to make myself write for a year now, and I’m not making the progress I’d like. For the record, I am defining “progress” to include “Having a job that pays real money – not that imaginary stuff. Not after that last time.” So I think Chrissy’s/Camuto’s idea is solid. Exciting even. Heck, even I’m pitching in (which may or may not be a good thing). But, no one can say that I didn’t help. OK, you could say that and you’d probably be right, but we’ll ignore that.
It’s funny: I didn’t want to a blog because I’m already writing one; I hate it. For the last three months, I’ve been up here in New York interning at a small publishing house trying to work my way into the publishing industry. But my tenure there is almost up, and soon I will have to worry about keeping that dream alive. But it seems that the publishing industry is just like submitting poetry or dating girls: you have to deal with a lot of rejection.
Gears = Changing:
I just realized some of you have no idea who I am. Well, tough. (I’m not good with introductions.)
My socks are full of holes and May in New York is quite unreasonable in this apartment. We have no heat.
With All Newest Sincerity,