I would have to say that today,… I feel cocky. My head is held high, I’m lookin’ good, and my *#$% is huge. Money in the bank, baby.
In looking at all the various artistic lifestyles I have fantasized about having throughout my life, I must admit that the one I find the most appealing is the life of a writer. You don’t have to be anything other than who you are, you get to travel around signing copies of your book and answering questions that have no answer. You get all the perks of being a rock star, without the wardrobe expense. Drinking, drugs, sex and infamy. Sounds like a dream.
I’m being (slightly) facetious. There is a very romantic quality to the life of a writer, the biggest one being the idea of having a home with a study that is filled with tons of books and a desk with an old typewriter on it. I’d keep a little bottle of my favorite Irish whiskey in the drawer (Redbreast – if you are interested) and I’d only listen to vinyl in that room. It would be my sanctuary, my temple. Of all the many things I have romanticized in my life, this room has been planned down to the most minute detail. I have dreamed of this room since I was a child. And, one day, it will be mine.
In this year of our lord, two-thousand-eleven, I intend to pursue my writing with the hunger of a horny young man. There is no reason I can’t, so… Blogging, short stories, songs, whatever. And, there are SO many contests and magazines that accept submissions. Why the hell not? It’s something I can do from my pseudo-study/writing room I have set up in my current home. And, it doesn’t cost me a dime. I just need to make peace with the tale I wish to tell. (grin)
So, bring on the babes and the booze and the broken hotel rooms. I am ready to rock and roll my writers life. As my good friend Dr. Hunter S. Thompson once said, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
I’m embracing my inner Hank Moody with no apologies what-so-ever. Although, I don’t want to let my son down like he let down his little girl. He’s too good not to cherish.
MAN! I’m feeling feisty. Who wants to play?