What’s All This Neurotic Writer Stuff, Then?

iPad with glasses resting on the smart keyboard folio surrounded by crumpled up paper.

Neurotic writers are the shit! The raging mental illness Anne Lamott describes in Bird by Bird is endearing. David Sederis’ shame in Santaland Diaries is heroic. The seemingly endless tales of imposter syndrome from all of my heroes is embiggening. I suffer thusly. . .

And yet the reality, in my life at least, is depressing. I’m beginning to think I’ve been duped by some very talented tricksters. But, in all fairness, I can’t blame it all on them.

(though we damned well do it anyway.)

Continue reading “What’s All This Neurotic Writer Stuff, Then?”

Talking to Myself

There’s a lady I work with, let’s call her K, who talks to herself so much she basically narrates her life. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with this. Everyone talks to themselves at some point or another. Still, it is a little weird. I am often confused by it, wondering if she’s talking to me or not. There are two ways I can go when I’m unsure what is happening. I can say, “What?” and if she doesn’t answer I know she was not talking to me. On the other hand, if I pretend I didn’t hear and she repeats herself more than once, I know she was talking to me.

Either way it is harmless stuff albeit awkward. Continue reading “Talking to Myself”