Maybe I’ve told this story before, but I was talking to my mother one day and she said “I just tell people who ask that you’re a poet.”
“But, Mom, that’s not why I am the way I am! [Living with roommates in my late twenties, in grad school, working at a bookstore, dating women or men or no one]”
“I know. But it’s easier to explain that way.”
I’ve used being a writer to justify my life. It started from a young age. I’m not pretty, so I guess I must be smart. I didn’t get straight As, but I was “creative”.
In my twenties, I’d sit in the coffeeshops on Saturday morning and watch young couples giggle together over their double mocha fat-free vanilla-scented saccharine-infused drinkaccinos and I’d think “I can write poems that make grown men cry.”
My house is a cesspool, but I think “I’m writing a goddamned book.” My front hedge is overgrown and the neighbors are giving me the stink eye. But I hit word 60,000 yesterday so I don’t give a good goddamn.
What stories do you tell yourself?