This isn't the plan, now is it?
So somewhere I went wrong and wound up writing to myself. According to some career aptitude test I wrote, being a writer is something that I would enjoy doing. According to this same career aptitude test, who kindly provided me with the expected steps for the career of a writer, at the peak of my career, I can expect to make anywhere from five to 30 thousand dollars a year! Now don't get me wrong, getting paid to write down gibberish that I made a flow chart for would be awesome. The problem lies in that I can make about 30 thousand by having a menial job that doesn't necessarily lead to a constant stream of rejection. I can cripple my self-worth quite handily on my own, thank you.
The thing is, I can't shake the dream. Somewhere in me is buried a really, really great Harlequin novel. Now I have no idea how much an author of such esteemed works would make, and my only point of reference is the consolation prize that Philip takes as a mistress in Of Human Bondage, but it seemed to work out for her. And I know I can smut it up to right degree that Mrs. Neglected-Housewife needs. And I can also dream of being the author of choice for whatever type of woman mass produces used underwear to sell on craigslist. I can be that guy.
But I'm a long way off. I'm already the new 20, more or less unemployed, and without direction. The prospect of any boob touching I may perform as part of my research seems nought but a dream. All I have left is my general contempt.
And my wacky ideas about mass graves for cows.
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