I hope Deb becomes rich like a rich thing! I want her to bathe in tasty champagne and have Evian and white truffle pedicures!
(But mostly I want her to become rich, cause we have the same shoe size, and she'll say "Dahhhlink, of course you can wear those cunning Jimmy Choo's! They're so old -- I've had them a month! Here, borrow these simple little 4 carat emerald earrings, I'm wearing the Kashmir sapphires tonight." She will say this as we fly on her dashing little jet to her villa for Tired, Porny Teachers in Tuscany. Where I will promptly seduce the handsome artist living in the cottage down the road, drink all her vintage Amarone, and squash the grape harvest using my La Perla clad breasts.)
::tags along on Erin's foamy, foamy coattails::
I figure I won't be an entirely unuseful golddigger. She can get me drunk, strip me naked, roll me in duck tape, and use me as a ginormous, giggly Swiffer for her legion of scrawny, street-smart Italian kitties.
deb, I just read that whole rollercoaster ride in one swoop and I'm exhausted! I'm glad everything is working out. Writing is scary!
erika, I enjoyed that essay. I always enjoy your work.
Oh good! One of us has to make Kate some money. I'm going to die of waiting for the editor to get back to me and tell me everything is all wrong.
One of us has to make Kate some money.
Here's looking at you, kid.
I'm going to die of waiting for the editor to get back to me and tell me everything is all wrong.
Not going to happen. Those last two essays were phenomenal - there's something about the mixture of rarified exhaustion and passion for the topic that sings. It happens occasionally for me, but not nearly enough. It did happen with "Truth, in the Middle", and manoman, am I pleased with that.
"But I also spotted my personal diagnostic of an unhappy office: a big yellow poster telling me I didn't have to be crazy to work here, but it helped. "
So freaking true.
Kick-ass essay, erika. I've been fingerprinted I don't know how many times, and it always makes me feel like that.
I'm going to die of waiting for the editor to get back to me and tell me everything is all wrong.
Oh stop that. You're a marvelously talented writer. You really are, you know.
... besides, there's no possible way you can be suffering from an attack of insecurity about your writing, because I have ALL of that insecurity in my possession,
right now.
ALL of it.
(Why yes, I need to finish my sample chapters by next week. Excuse me while I panic and flail.)
