I went to a fancy writer’s salon last week. I brought a shitload of wine and cheese and I spent an hour helping set up beforehand and I still felt like a fucking imposter.
Someone got shitfaced and sang Joe Walsh into a microphone. A woman asked me if writing my blog was fun. I was supposed to have dinner with a writer I deeply admire, but the night slipped away and it didn’t happen. There was a long conversation where several writer women professed to have big, thick writing cocks. I’m guessing at least one of them didn’t remember it the next day.
In quasi-related news, I had an email exchange with a young writer about fellowships and writer’s block and what can really fuck us up and I wrote about it here. It wasn’t fun.
STRANGER DANGER 