I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like to be a tortured artist because I have a sudden urge to cut off my ear and mail it to Oprah.
Except I’m not sure if she’s still accepting fan mail now that her OWN network has had budget cuts. My ear would probably just end up in a pile of mail where that one lonely guy in northern Canada who responds to all of the letter to Santa. Because much like Santa, Oprah is a figment of our imagination, living in the North Pole, conjured up out of Baby Jeesus’s image, now in need of free manual labor help from tiny Vulcans to respond to fan mail.
I do like my ears though; they’re one of the few body parts I don’t feel need a Body By Jake workout. For now, I’ll keep my ears intact, but if Oprah starts being successful again, my ear is hers because I’m a true tortured artist.
I’m just a girl, standing in front of the internet, wanting it to love her.
A few weeks ago, a friend referred to me as “a creative.” At first I winced at the thought of me being someone who used her creativity to make a living, but then I realized that creative people weren’t held to the same standard as those who are called “a scientist” or “a logical thinker” or “someone who made money.”
We creatives need the freedom to expand our minds to allow for juices to flow freely through our minds and out our fingers.
That’s also a line that could be used in 50 Shades of Grey, which is really just a trilogy of freely flowing juices wrapped into literary smut, snuggled into a taut, tortured billionaire’s well-oiled, well-used package.
But unlike Christian Grey’s juices, my juices are not-so-freely flowing. My creative juices are partially dried up.
Or that’s what I thought until I slapped myself silly, took a shot of Goldschläger, and woke up to accept my place in this world as a writer.
Who am I to say I’m a writer?
This is when I thank all of the writers who have come before me who have not been financially successful (JK Rowling, you and your Harry Potter billion$ are out of the club), because without your inabilities to make money doing what we do, I couldn’t call my pretend work, “work.”
Because who can Tweet out ridiculous, self-absorbed, embarrassing-to-see-in-the-morning things like this and call it work?
On a scale of one-to-asshole, how narcissistic is it to fall in love with one’s own hair?
— Angie (@alotofnothing) April 17, 2012
Who can write an essay about the Mommy Wars, immediately regret publishing said article, think of taking the article down because she’s not confident in her ability to make sense, only to find out that essay is then referenced by my hero, Joanne Bamberger, and then quoted (and called hilarious!) in Huffington Post in a “Best of the Mom and Dad Blogs” article?
I guess it’s time for me to wake up, take another shot of Goldschläger, not send my severed ear to Oprah, dream of sharing a chimichanga with Rachel Maddow, and realize I may be good at this whole writing thing.