You catch yourself patting your laptop when you close it down.
So guilty of this.
When I got off from work last night (barely making it to catch Glee, haha), I stopped by the BookSale for some good-natured spelunking. Wanted a quick read to keep me company while I munched on my shawarma sandwich. And yay I found this book: You Know You’re A Writer When, by Adair Lara. It did keep me company. But it also had people looking my way whenever I giggled. As though I were a weirder sight than the show band trying to cover Lady Gaga. Huh. Anyhoo. It’s a cute little book, one that I want to hunt down so I can give it to every writer I know. It’s a small book, and I think I could slip it in my laptop bag, so I could pull it out whenever I need some bolstering.
The entries are funny, but they are also true. Which is meta-funny, in my world. So. You know you’re a writer when:
Your pet peeve is people who use the word “literally” wrong–such as “I literally cooked each recipe in my head.” Such errors make you see red–figuratively.
I really could strangle people who do this. I, like, literally died. Wouldn’t you want to try?!
At parties, you check out the bookshelves the way other people snoop through medicine cabinets.
When I walk around the neighborhood at night, I try to look into lighted windows to see whether they have bookshelves, and whether I can recognize the books. That’s not illegal, right? It’s creepy, yes, and my boyfriend has yanked me away several times–but I don’t think it’s illegal.
You fell in love with a man because he used “frisson” and “palimpsest” in cocktail-party conversation.
No comment. Then again, when I met The Boyfriend, we were in a writers’ workshop, and he had to use “juxtaposition” and the hated “entropy”–I think he fell in love with me because I staunchly defended the use of objective correlative in a story, haha. /dork
Your driver’s license reads, Eyes: shifty. Hair: windswept.
Writing is the only thing you do that doesn’t make you feel as if you should be doing something else.
That is all. Back to my job. Which is, uh, writing. Sort of. La-dee-dah.