I go to a coffee shop and stuff my face with pastries instead of writing furiously in a Moleskine notebook.
I don’t even have a Moleskine notebook. I have the cheap spiral type that goes for a buck a pop.
I never knew in my heart that I was born to be a writer. Nope. Uh-uh. I just started for shits and giggles, and eventually my initial ego and naiveté hardened into persistence and a weedy sort of love for storytelling.
I don’t get offended when people think writing isn’t a real job or real work. Their opinion is their business. My business is writing about werewolf balls in the most tasteful way possible.
I don’t pop up my collar while taking strolls to ponder about the meaning of existence and how to trap it into art. It makes my neck itch.
Which is a pity, because it looks snazzy as fuck.