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So I don’t know how many of my followers are aware that I am also a writer (fiction and non-fiction) in addition to being an internet celebutard extraordinaire with a checkered past in the entertainment industry, but it’s true. As true as Beiber’s unfringing and @WhiteGirlProblems on Twitter.

In the past two years I’ve been working on the treatments/screenplays of two feature films, dialogue-consulted on a few projects, and gotten 200K words into two novels, plus the usual blog-mania and interweb bullshit — not even to MENTION the genius that pours like molten rainbow from my fingers in personal correspondence.

The Awesomeness of this non-job means I get to spend hours and hours and hours alone with my computer/internerd/cable provider instead of talking to actual people, but on the plus-side, I can count Tyra Banks, The Real Housewives and Michel Roux Jr. as personal best friends, even if they a) don’t actually know about it and b) would likely be really fucking weirded out if they did.

Basically, when trying to write (fiction ESPECIALLY) it’s kind of a feast-or-famine situation, allowing for hours of tappy-tappy-tappy, delete-delete-delete, tappy-tappy-tappy that leaves you in gym-shorts with panda eyes for the majority of the morning/afternoon, or alternatively can leave pockets of delirious angst regarding the lives of your invented characters, a delightful sense of ineffectual Godlikeness, that, like a disappointed Pope in a Tudor-era Reformation says things like “How can you disobey me!? Don’t you know I made you?!” Actually, I think both my parents and my agent have used that line. Maybe my realities are blurring again.

In any event, the latter can provide hours upon hours of self-indulgent me-time, which totally doesn’t count as idleness or sulking, because you are The Creator, motherfathers! This skill (well, if it was working, much like myself…) allows for the entertainment of everyone, so basically it’s a free pass to eat bonbons and watch reality TV guilt-free until the muse kicks in again.

Most advantageously, one can be inspired to create new characters from the hyper-realism of daytime/reality television — who can ignore the obvious parallels between The Real Housewives (of anywhere) and the characters of Little Women, Gone With The Wind, and clearly anything written by the Brontës? Pinched the dialogue right out of the series. Undeniable. In fact, I can admit (with only a little pride) that I only read Mansfield Park after acknowledging it’s television inspiration, Wife Swap (UK Edition).

Not to be outdone by things that have come before, reality television consistently ups the ante, not to be content with the occasional paw-print-tattoo-on-corseted-bridal-breast at Kleinfeld’s, but giving up the bounty that is My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. Are you unfamiliar with this blessed show? Consider yourself missing out on life.

 

 

 

 

It reminds me of finding out that these existed.

 

 

 

Yes, being a Writer/Stay-At-Home-Mentor allows me to bring things to the collective consciousness that should have remained ignorable. http://www.etsy.com/people/Swarovskijeans?ref=ls_profile is as real as you or I and provides infotainment and sinsperations to many modern-day Dickens’s.

Anyway, the point of the story is I’ve had a broken internet for the past few months meaning there’s a lot for me to catch you up on, so stay tuned and whatever. Also if you have reality-TV-worthy life-drama going on, please contact me via the comments section of the blog or via my Twitter Account so as to confess all, await my absolution/sin-punishings, and your new life in the publication of my falsified memoirs.

 

That’s what my parents and agent are doing.

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2 thoughts on “This One Time, In Damned-Camp

  1. Thank you for introducing me to the wild world of gypsy weddings! I don’t think I’m going to leave my computer for the next 3 days now.

    XOXO

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