I have a very love/hate relationship with writing. Most writers do, I’d imagine.
Ugh. Writers. A word that describes a person who writes, yet somehow it has taken on a persona that has a fetish for tortoise shell frames. I think we all know that faux half rims are the way to go for this racket. But I suppose as long as one is bespectacled, they can wax poetic about their process at cocktail parties until the room clears and hors d’oeuvres can be crammed into ziplock baggies on the low.
Early adulthood has done a number on my footing. I have enough of a life to reflect on that the amount of cringing I do can sometimes be paralyzing. Its hard to complain about personal growth, but as a career pessimist I’m constantly reminded that I’m not done. And the internet? The internet never forgets. So while I often have plenty of things to say, its often left out in the ether and up to my equally stoned friends to remember.
I have no idea what this blog will end up as. I can promise you it won’t be cohesive. Maybe a memoir style, maybe horridly Seinfeld-esque observational humor, but be warned that sometimes I get an itch for fiction. Fan fiction. In an AU where Janeway and Uhura voyage to have the first biracial human test tube baby in the Delta quadrant.
Just kidding. I would never publish that here, its clearly a screen play.
But here we are. Your move, Crissy.