Just finished reading "On Writing" by Stephen King (for the second time) a couple days ago. Am starting to see how much my life is starting to resemble the standard "pre-successful writer" description of King and others; to wit, un- or under-employed, depressed, nursing a raging case of self-doubt, assailed by rejections from every corner, buoyed by the loving support of a spouse, tormented by a cat, in the gutter drinking Woolite, talking to ghosts, dreaming of different meats I wish I could own; thinking magically, then realizing that you have to pay Joan Didion a royalty for doing that so you stop because you can't afford it, reckless ennui, mild headache, chills, loss of apetite, and fecklessly pondering your last workshop with Benjamin Percy.
Also dry, itchy scalp.
So taking all that into account, when do you think my big fat check will be arriving? Asking for a friend.
