Playing It Cool

I’m trying reeeeeaaaaaallly hard to play it cool. I walk about town, tucking my hair behind my ear, a fingertip feathering away the stray bead of sweat on my forehead, a bemused twitch on my lips . . . but my mind is agog. Agog, I say.

If you know me, you may be thinking I’m freaking out as I wait for a response from a publisher. Or perhaps you think this is about anxiety over my new role as a college instructor. Or maybe it's because I’m broke-ah-broke-ah-broke-er than a hobo until some paychecks start rollin’ in. But you’d be thinking wrong. Unless, you REALLY know me, and you know the truth:

The fall tv lineup is here! No more re-runs! Time once again to fill up my dvr with Revenge and Harry’s Law and Grey’s Anatomy and Supernatural and Falling Skies. That’s right, I love crap tv. LOVE. IT. If West Wing and Lost and X-Files and Wonder Woman were back in the mix, life would be perfect. Who needs money when you’ve got one-liners and predictable story arcs encapsulated in one-hour increments of sad sack crack? 

I’m sure you’re sitting there, judging me right now. That’s fine. I totally understand. I judge me, too. But I will stick up for myself in one sense: I can only write if there is something going on around me. I can’t bear silence. Music doesn’t do it for me, not when I’m trying to write. There is no better white noise than canned chatter (except Mad Man, I could never tune it out, I’d be unable to look away even though I ended each show in a black depression over my messed-up crush on that pig Draper).  Believe me, I’d rather be writing in a bar, surrounded by real life hook-ups and slurred singing, the ching of video poker and the howls of laughter from the drunks in the corner . . . but that is a hard role to play when you also want to keep your child. The State tends to frown on mommy’s who spend everyday at Joe’s Tavern. Or so I hear.