writer's blog

i'm starting to get really angry with myself. this morning, i spent about thirty minutes staring at the complete emptiness of a blank word document, trying to put into sentences all the incredibly genius thoughts i've been having recently. no luck. instead, everything i started to write turned into a blog about a chinese food restaurant on olympic called "hunan taste," a name that, if you are like me, you initially read as something much more cannabalistic. so, basically, i can only write about myself, poorly. i cooked up this idea that if all else fails, i'll gather together all the blog posts and send them off to a publisher because that's an entirely fabulous idea for several reasons: 1) i wouldn't have to admit that i can't produce fiction; 2) this blog is totally remarkable and deserves publication; and 3) i've learned that people always really enjoy paying for things they can just get for free.*

i've started a real journal. a leather-bound journal embossed with the word across the front cover. i think i just heard someone gasp ("leather journal?!? aren't you a vegan?), so let me share with you the first entry in my handwritten blog: "this is not a vegan-friendly journal. i know this. i am also, however, a fake vegan who eats yogurt and ice cream and butter, so maybe it's ok to use a leather-bound journal. there's a method to this madness, as there usually is. i recently made a resolution to write all my insanely brilliant thoughts in a collective space, and even bought an environmentally sound notebook in which to do so. sadly, my first entry ended up sassy and bitchy. as totally justified as the entry was, i knew my new journal needed to be free of petty dramas and become a masterpiece. nothing says 'i'm serious about this' like leather and gilded pages, right? that's what i figured. thus, this book was born. a cow had to die so that i could feel mature about my diary. i'm a terrible person." i hope that helps explain to you all why i felt dead animal was appropriate (and necessary, much like the leather birkenstocks my mom got me, and the braided leather cuff that reminds me of zoe and rhode island). and, yes, i do actually write like that in my own personal journal. i'm a douchebag, and you should know this by now.


*i originally wrote those last two points to be snarky and bitter, but then i remembered the postsecret books, and realized that if someone can publish a collection of postcards sent to him by other people (and which he has already posted online), and really convince people to buy said collection (i've been tempted myself, and i read the website religiously), why can't i? what would happen to me if i published this blog in a book? that's worse than writing a memoir, i think. it's way more self-aggrandizing. then, i could say, "yeah, i created this whole website just to talk about myself, and then i published it, so that all the people who don't want to troll blog sites to read about strangers' stupid lives could feel voyeuristically tempted to read all about me in a bound book." also, i could then have a bound book under my belt, and after that, i'm sure i'd feel confident enough to start writing again. this is best plan ever.