this writing thing i'm doing. rob said to me, 'wow, that's a really big gamble, huh. like, in 10 years, if your novel does well, it will validate the entire last decade of your life. everything you did will suddenly be viewed differently, like, 'oh, that's when she was writing her novel.' "
what will happen if i don't kick ass as a published writer was left unsaid.
the desire to be known and respected...validated...has suddenly been kicked into even higher gear.
'i fly so high, and fall so low.'
moby's 'we are all made of stars' is playing in the background.
the CD was a welcome surprise the other day in the mail, the return of a loan i made to a member of my fishing crew in alaska, over 2 years ago. it came along with a magazine-size photo of me kneeling in sunny grass in a full patchwork dress with a hard-core homesteader look on my face.
it's pretty cool, except for the fact that actually displaying it would be weirdly narcissistic.
according to society. but as far as i'm concerned it IS all about me. i mean, who else is there? no one right now, anyway.
except for that unbearably predictable and therefore exploitable family-thing called 'unconditional love.'