Here’s an email I just wrote and sent to Swamp Chicken, in the hopes of garnering some of his wise counsel:
I did learn something from all of this, namely that no matter who you are or what your parentage is, you have to work for success. I really did use to sit around waiting to be discovered. After my book was published I thought I’d teleport to a beachfront property in Malibu, be a guest on Dave Letterman. I was that naive about the world. A writer friend tried to explain this to me over dinner one night. I’ll never forget it. Like I’d just fallen off the turnip truck, she’d said. She worked her butt off, for magazines, wrote numerous books, landed a spot on a morning talk show.
It’s shameful how scarcely I blog these days. I want to do it more often, to stoke the anemic flame of my online existence, to practice my craft for a reader who is not Bryan, to cultivate a conversation with you.
The good news is that I’m spending my non-blogging time being a more or less decent housewife and mother. Or maybe that’s not even true. (*See previous post.) No, the weather is warm and I’ve been taking hour-long brisk walks, lip-syching with the cast of Glee. These walks help me keep in shape for my new fitness regime—my kettlebells class. I go once a week and it’s one hour of ass-kicking swinging fun. We do routines with names like Turkish Get-Up, and well, I can’t remember any others. If I were doing Crossfit, which I am not because I can’t afford it and it’s just far enough away from my house to be a pain in the ass, I might be doing routines with names like Nasty Girl. Doesn’t that sound like waist-whittling fun? I think it might kill me.