So. I sold my book. “What book?” you may be asking. You have not been paying attention. Or possibly I haven’t mentioned it. I’m bad with details. Short story? I started a book 10 years ago as a love letter to my completely fucked-up family. It’s a mostly-true memoir called “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened” and I’m already tired of reading about it. Aren’t you? Of course you are. Everyone is writing a book. Turn to the person on your left. They’re writing a book. The person on your right? Also writing a book. The person underneath your chair isn’t writing a book but only because they’re a dog but if they had opposable thumbs they would totally be writing a book too. In fact, your dog is probably thinking right now how much better their book would be than mine. Well, fucking try it then, asshole. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO POOP INSIDE THE HOUSE . Even the cat doesn’t understand what your fucking problem is. I don’t need your damn dog judging me, people.
I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for. I’m just practicing being inappropriately bitchy for when I become famous. It is not coming naturally. Victor just snorted derisively. Victor can go fuck himself. Victor just said I’m making his argument for him. Victor may have a point.
But here’s the thing…I just sold my book. The book I’ve been working on for 10 years. The book that I quit my job to write. The book that still isn’t finished but that has taken every spare moment that I had and that I never talk about because I’m so afraid of someone calling me a fraud because I can’t even use punctuation properly. And right now I should be happy. Vindicated, even. Right now I should be going down my list of all the people who ever doubted me, broke up with me, made me cry in my office or wouldn’t let me sit next to them at lunch so that I can tell them that when I get invited on the Ellen show I’m going to personally tell America what an asshole they are. But instead I feel…terrified. Partially because I can’t find my list of people to fuck with but more importantly, because things are going so well all at once that I can’t stop waiting for the roof to fall in. And since the roof hasn‘t fallen in yet, I immediately suspect that I am having some sort of nervous breakdown and that all of this is a hallucination. Because it is easier for me to believe that this is a delusional psychosis than it is for me to believe that I might actually be worthy of something good happening to me. Which is kind of funny. And also incredibly sad. Because it’s absolutely true.
And it’s also absolutely wrong.
I know I will never be Charles Dickens. I will never use a semi-colon correctly. Or know what a semi-colon is. I suspect it’s this thing : ; It looks like a sideways man who had half of his handlebar mustache shaved off when he passed out drunk at a frat house. But that’s not the point. The point is that I have story to tell and it’s filled with unpredictable raccoons and accidental stabbings and profanity and it is nothing like all the fancy books on my shelves…but maybe that’s what makes it special. And in all my talk about how strangely and beautifully unique each of you are, I never apply that same logic to myself which kind of makes me the biggest hypocrite ever. So starting today I’m going to start practicing not hating myself quite so much because then maybe when this book actually comes out I can say how proud I am of myself and it won’t be so much of a lie. Luckily for me, I have a long time to practice. Luckier for you, I’m about to shut up about my book and not mention it again until it comes out in 2012, which is coincidentally the same year that the Mayans predict that the world is going to end. I can’t help but suspect that these two things might be related.
I apologize in advance if my book inadvertently triggers the apocalypse. I assure you, that was totally not my intention.