Well. It’s decided. I’ll never be a famous writer.
I couldn’t possibly fit the bill. One, I never had any traumatic childhood experiences or prolonged illnesses. My parents didn’t hate me and neither one ran off with a gypsy.
I never ran away from finishing school. I never even went. I completed my college degree and I’m pursuing even higher higher education.
I never ran around with the underground bohemian crowd. I’ve never been an alcoholic or a drug addict. I haven’t so much as puffed on a cigarette. My wildest incident of substance abuse was drinking caffeinated coffee at 10 pm and being awake until 4 the next morning. And boy, the hangover.
I’ve never been married and had an affair. And one traumatic relationship in my late teens is hardly tragic enough. I would at least had to have had three traumatic relationships at the same time to qualify.
I’ve never stowed away in a fishing boat off the coast of Alaska. I’ve never been whaling. I never belonged to a communist activist group. I’ve never secluded myself in a cabin by a pond for a year. I’ve never been committed to an asylum. I don’t have immediate plans of becoming an ex-patriot, because I rather like America.
I just can’t be a writer. At least not one of the greats.
Oh, well. I’m probably a bit better off.