A not famous person (namely, me) once said that to become a best-selling novelist one must live on two things: whey protein powder and discontentedness. Now neither of these delicacies are as fortifying as a pulsing chunk of blood-drenched human brains--all spongy cortices and lobes and memories of first kisses--but society has a few rules of etiquette that we can't disregard without ending up in a padded cell. And let us not forget that it is really quite difficult to type out a best-seller with hands tucked safely away in a straitjacket.
So, fellow limp-shuffle-droolers, it is with these truths in mind that I set off on my quest to literary super stardom three years ago with a protein smoothie, rather than the brain stem of a Girl Scout, clenched in my less-accurate typing hand. (Oh, but aren't the stems the best part?! The zombie equivalent of the artichoke's heart. Just scrumptious!)
In the beginning the novel was little more than a joke. "It'll be about Jared from Subway. Yeah! That's brilliant! Or... or maybe about a four-year-old serial killer. That would be crazy awesome, right? I'll figure it out. You just wait and see." Then it grew into a sort of get-rich-quick scheme. "Chuck Palahniuk and I are totally going to be besties! We'll throw our millions at orphans as we head cross country on a wild road trip that's sure to include high jinks and carryings-on of the most scandalous variety!" The ample supply of discontentedness I was born with fueled my writing, the protein kept me alive, and in time I had a manuscript that exploited all the most shameful parts of my personality, all the most unfortunate parts of my past. The book is called Corpse, a love story for those of us who don't believe in love, but secretly wish we did.
It was as Corpse slogged through the growing pains of adolescence (we writers call this revision), that the truths of why I was really doing this slowly came to light. It's true, I'd love to be able to pay my bills and buy actual animal protein once in a while, but really I write because doing so leaves me hopeful that I still have a chance to be somebody. I write because I'm selfish, because this life isn't enough for me. I write because for some strange reason I feel I deserve for all my dreams to come true. I mean, of course I write to work through all the psychological riffraff I can't afford to take to a therapist (who doesn't do that?), but here before you, dear members of the undead, I admit that I write for your validation. Buy me. Read me. Love me. Feast upon my brains if you must. Sell me in Target and Borders. Download me on Amazon.com. Make me your bitch and give me your money! I'm doing this for you. I'm doing this for you.
Until next time, stay putrid,