I take the books off the shelf now and marvel at them, thinking, I did this! This thing in my hands did not exist before me!I imagine it’s exactly like the person who built the Duomo felt. Well, people. It was probably a lot of people. And they most likely died during that time, since it took 140 years to complete.
So, to clarify, I don’t feel dead.
What I meant, was, it’s a big accomplishment. Not to brag, though. I don't have a t-shirt with “I’m an Author!” printed on the front. (Although, to my darling husband if you are reading this: potential Christmas present?)
It’s not like I’m rich and famous or anything. I don’t have a cleaning lady, and Oprah still won’t return my calls. But, FYI, I would take rich over famous any day of the week. Think about it: if you are famous, you are hounded relentlessly. If you are rich but no one knows who you are, you can just go about your business, buying jets or 2nd houses in Belize (or 25th houses in Belize) and no one cares.Writing does not make you rich. I found that out. What it does make you is neurotic. I carry a little notebook around and pluck it out of my pocket to jot down quick notes. Actually, since I bought my new iPhone, I dictate to SIRI. SIRI sometimes misspells things or misinterprets things, and I am left to decipher later: What the hell does “Thistle turns green” mean?? Why was that important?
SIRI is helpful with directions, though. I use her as my GPS. She never says in a snotty tone, “Recalibrating,” when I miss my turn. She calmly gives me a new route.And then I say, “Read me my last note, SIRI,” and she says, “You are bitch and famous, or you will be moon.”
trifecta writing challenge/ 333 words/ required word is "pluck"
**Shameless self-promotion: You can buy the books I wrote here, and here, and here, and they make great Christmas or Hanukkah presents!!