An old college professor once told me to strap on the blinkers and run my own race, not worry about how others run their own. While I have found a stiff margarita to be an outstanding substitution for racing blinkers, as well as much easier on my hair, I still suffer regular bouts of "who the fuck am I kidding?".
Every so often, and really it's more every than often, I read someone else's work and am left feeling as if I should bone up on the latest techniques for properly preparing french fries and cheeseburgers and leave the writing to those with real talent. I don't know why this happens, it's not as if my scribblings are so wretched that the reader is driven to drink, hoping to erase the chapters from his memory. Or hey, maybe they are! In that case I will be proud to have contributed a valuable resource for anyone who needs a reason to get completely blotto.
I write because I love to, even have to, because I can sit down in front of the Dell at the crack of noon and get up for my first 48 ounce iced chai tea latte two pink stuffs easy on the ice of the day and discover it's already 5 in the afternoon. The time flies almost as fast as my fingers. Sometimes it seems I have an unruly hoard in my head demanding to have their stories told, and I can't write fast enough.
Today was not one of those days though. Today was "research day", thanks to Miss Emma Adler whose tale of lust, betrayal, and revenge demands I understand the fashion trends, hairstyles, slang, and daily life of a teenager living in the dustbowl during the Great Depression.
For the record, I think Marian Marsh is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. I would gladly sacrifice a hundred Kardashians, Honey Boo Boos, and Snookies if I thought the gods would see fit to return old school glamour to Hollywood.
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