I turn another year older tomorrow. (I'm not going to tell you my age, but I will say that I'm snugly ensconced in my thirties. I'm no beginner, but the proverbial hill is still safely in the distance.) Birthdays are difficult, I think, for us creative types. I've been sitting here all day with my buddies Snowstorm, Flu, and Time of the Month drinking cup after cup of whine, bemoaning the fact that I'm (lip quiver) not where I want to be.
Instead of devoting all of my time to my creative endeavors, I have to show up at the gray cubicle every day, doing work that's rote and often unfulfilling, because I'm a talentless hack. My novel isn't progressing as quickly or as ingeniously as I want it to, because I'm a talentless hack. After three years in New England, I'm still stumbling over the basic cultural mores of living here, because I'm a socially inept talentless hack. (For anyone considering relocation: it's essential to know what team Tom Brady plays for, own clothing that's not black, and if it's snowing, you still have to go to work.) I feel itchy and out of place and terminally scattered and unproductive and very capable of run-on sentences.
I'll pause here, so you can all cry for the tragedy of talentless hackery that is me.
