Posted on September 13, 2010


One fascinating facet of my personality that I haven’t discussed here is that I am something of a book fanatic.  When I was a kid I never went anywhere without a book, to the point that when I got my driver’s license I did not know the way to my best friend’s house because I had never paid a whit of attention on the drives there and back, always having had my nose buried in a book.  In third grade, I nearly gave my mother a heart attack asking what “masturbate” meant, and when she figured out that I’d learned it from a book in my classroom library (Deenie by Judy Blume)  and not the neighborhood pervert, she made the teacher remove the book, and thus began my life as an angry liberal.  I was anti-censorship.  In fifth grade my teacher confiscated my copy of some Danielle Steele novel, but my mom knew by then that she couldn’t keep up with me and just gave it back.  These days, at my peak I average a book every two or three days (no more Danielle Steele, thankfully.)  My point is, I’m a nerd.  Don’t ask me for a book recommendation unless you have a lot of time on your hands.

Like many book nerds, I have always thought that I should write one.  Like many aspiring author nerds, every book concept I can think of is so ridiculously autobiographical that I might as well just write a memoir–but I have enough self-awareness to know that I haven’t done anything worth memorializing quite yet.  This is the age of narcissism, and I am not only a blogger but one who is in therapy, so I know all about narcissism.  I’m also an inveterate consumer of memoirs, so I know the worth on the open market of my particular daddy-issues ridden, midwest escapee, smug urbanite sad-but-valiant single girl tale of woe.  It ain’t much.  However!  I nurse a tiny flicker of hope that if I just get my one bad memoir-thinly-disguised-as-novel out of my system, I might have something decent in me.

To that end, I’m toying with the idea of participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), an orgy of authorship whereby participants write 50,000 words during the month of November.  The point is to write furiously and worry about editing later, if ever.  Good lord willing and the creek don’t rise, my life, with its endless stores of free time, will change drastically in January, and I feel like I should really take my navel gazing to the limit before then.  On the other hand, I’m super lazy and I really enjoy spending my free time staring into the middle distance and pondering life’s mysteries, such as Am I still fertile? and How long can one person eat only chips and salsa for dinner before she dies of malnutrition? But if I did write a memoir thinly disguised as a novella…well, that would be kind of hot.  It would kind of make me want myself, and if there’s one thing I have pretended to learn in my hours of therapy, it’s that you have to love yourself before anyone else will! Maybe the same principle applies to finding oneself sexxxy.

Speaking of sexxxy, I have a date this week with a Spaniard.  And speaking of loving yourself first, he is waaaaay too hot for me.  Like, by a factor of 25.  (Part of loving yourself can include knowing your level and sticking to it.  I haven’t actually vetted that with my therapist–he has different ideas about me assessing my worth on the open market, something about low self-esteem and the distorting lens of decades of depression and blah blah he is obviously paid to be nice to me, but I’m pretty sure I’m right.)  Anyway, stay tuned…what specific kind of disaster will it be?  Hopefully not the kind that ultimately requires antibiotics!

Posted in: Angst, Dating, Writing