I’m Writing a Novel. Where’s the Xanax?

Hemingway

Hello all!

I’m Savanna James – mother, wife, faithful tax payer, and scarily enough, a-wanna-be writer. I know what you’re thinking. Why in the world would anyone in their right mind choose to be a writer? I’ve been asking myself that very same question. And still, almost a year later, I’m stumped. Really fucking stumped.

To be completely and inappropriately honest, if I could choose anything to do with what little free time I have between work, giving my kids enough attention so they won’t grow up to be serial killers, and keeping my husband half-way sexually satisfied with half-ass blow jobs and quickies, stressing myself with all the shit that comes along with writing, is the last thing I want to do.

I could do better things with my time, like lying in bed, curled up with Steinbeck, Faulkner, or one of my smutty, tingly books – reading the art of words, instead of trying to create them. But just like the mini-sized Snicker, Twix, and Hershey chocolate bars I just inhaled, reading curbs the craving for something bigger, but it doesn’t satisfy it.

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