Squawk Radio
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Reality Intrudes into Elizabeth's Normally Rich (and Very Satisfying) Fantasy Life
Do you guys ever have those weeks where you're so busy lunching with friends, and playing tennis, and buying jewelry, and having drinks on the patio at the club, and juggling calls from Raoul and Sven and Reynaldo and Marco, that you completely forget you're supposed to be working as a glamorous bestselling novelist?
Yeah, me neither.
Those of you who have visited my web site know how I !@#$%ing LOATHE reality. And it wasn't even GOOD reality that intruded into my life this week. Nothing I could write about at some future date under the thinly veiled guise of--wink wink--FICTION writing (hey, it's my JOB) to make suffering it at least marginally worthwhile.
No friends in need of counsel about their illicit love affairs. (Though that reminds me I need to buy a bridal shower gift before Saturday.) No cataclysmic geological disturbances. (Though I think the sinkhole down by our mailbox might be getting bigger.) No devastating financial ruin for mine enemies. (Though I did have to suspend my son's allowance until he cleans his room.) No melodramatic medical trauma for a family member. (Though I do have a brother who's prone to hissy fits.)
No, just a lot of boring !@#$%ing reality from which I was jerked today, thank God, after my return from a trip to the dermatologist, whereupon I found frantic messages on the answering machine from two of my fellow squawkers wanting to know where I was, was I was out on that ledge again, and if I jumped this time, could they have my vast collection of 80s New Wave albums, some of which are Australian imports worth at least ten dollars, and also my future royalties, which, all modesty aside, could amount to fully twice that figure.
Okay, so maybe they weren't all that frantic.
Fact is, the reason I haven't been around is because, well, I've had a lot of boring !@#$%ing stuff to do, none of which pays the bills. It piles up sometimes ya know. Dermatologist. Laundry. Grocery. Driving halfway across town to change my mom's furnace filter. Parent Association meetings with that bake sale Nazi Carol. Hosing off the deck so I'll have someplace to escape to for a little !@#$%ing peace and quiet once in a while, for God's sake.
And now I come back to the blog to find that I have to worry about my FK score on Amazon (as if my FKing reviews aren't enough), Terri's got a new pinup guy who looks like Xander Harris (oh, there's a shocker), Connie's got a new pinup guy who looks like a serial killer (oh, there's a shocker), Mr. Darcy is drinking lattes, Lisa wants to make me even fatter, and Eloisa's been in yet another Potting Incident. What happened to Christina? (No, wait. Don't answer that. I don't want to know.)
Is it any !@#$%ing wonder I hear voices in my head? Oh, wait. That's part of the job. Isn't it?
Yeah, me neither.
Those of you who have visited my web site know how I !@#$%ing LOATHE reality. And it wasn't even GOOD reality that intruded into my life this week. Nothing I could write about at some future date under the thinly veiled guise of--wink wink--FICTION writing (hey, it's my JOB) to make suffering it at least marginally worthwhile.
No friends in need of counsel about their illicit love affairs. (Though that reminds me I need to buy a bridal shower gift before Saturday.) No cataclysmic geological disturbances. (Though I think the sinkhole down by our mailbox might be getting bigger.) No devastating financial ruin for mine enemies. (Though I did have to suspend my son's allowance until he cleans his room.) No melodramatic medical trauma for a family member. (Though I do have a brother who's prone to hissy fits.)
No, just a lot of boring !@#$%ing reality from which I was jerked today, thank God, after my return from a trip to the dermatologist, whereupon I found frantic messages on the answering machine from two of my fellow squawkers wanting to know where I was, was I was out on that ledge again, and if I jumped this time, could they have my vast collection of 80s New Wave albums, some of which are Australian imports worth at least ten dollars, and also my future royalties, which, all modesty aside, could amount to fully twice that figure.
Okay, so maybe they weren't all that frantic.
Fact is, the reason I haven't been around is because, well, I've had a lot of boring !@#$%ing stuff to do, none of which pays the bills. It piles up sometimes ya know. Dermatologist. Laundry. Grocery. Driving halfway across town to change my mom's furnace filter. Parent Association meetings with that bake sale Nazi Carol. Hosing off the deck so I'll have someplace to escape to for a little !@#$%ing peace and quiet once in a while, for God's sake.
And now I come back to the blog to find that I have to worry about my FK score on Amazon (as if my FKing reviews aren't enough), Terri's got a new pinup guy who looks like Xander Harris (oh, there's a shocker), Connie's got a new pinup guy who looks like a serial killer (oh, there's a shocker), Mr. Darcy is drinking lattes, Lisa wants to make me even fatter, and Eloisa's been in yet another Potting Incident. What happened to Christina? (No, wait. Don't answer that. I don't want to know.)
Is it any !@#$%ing wonder I hear voices in my head? Oh, wait. That's part of the job. Isn't it?
Elizabeth Bevarly, 9:17 PM
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