Posted: 16 March 2005 in writing

Is there any reason why I can’t sit in a beach house and write for a living?
Could it be because I initially spelled ‘beach’ as ‘bach’ until the spellcheck snagged it?
Perhaps it’s because the last five ideas I had all were short on plot and long on sitting in a beach house writing?
I know. It’s probably because I don’t have a scarred childhood, a political scandal or a versace/manalo/hilton twist.
Is it because I’ve been to lazy to try?

The fact is, I can’t have less material than Kristin Gore writing a light Capitol Hill romance; I’m not less interesting than Amy Rosenthal and her Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life; I certainly have the literary chops to do better than Undead and Unwed, Undead and Unemployed and Undead and Unappreciated by the slightly repetitive MJ Davidson; and, I’m not half as dull as some of Oprah’s recent choices. In fact, I have an unusual job in the thick of DC politics, I’m queer and married in a red state, I’ve got a better “10 things you’ve never done” than most folks, I’ve been all over the world, and I’m convinced that at least my largish family would want to buy my book.

So why aren’t I doing something with that? Grr.


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