Sometime before Memorial Day Weekend, I turn 44. Go ahead, tell me how I don’t look it (LOL!) and all that jazz; a girl never gets tired of hearing that.
But mostly, tell me that it’s OK that I’m damn near 50 and I’m still sitting on a pile of unpublished stories and poems. And that it’s OK to not OWN the literary world in NYC and the tri-state area. Go on, tell me!
Because even during bouts of looking in the mirror and affirming that I, in fact, am the shit, there’s a little voice that whisper-screams, “You’re doing it all wrong.”
So for my birthday I only ask for a couple of things: one million American dollars (CASH MONEY), and for you to remind me that the little voice is an asshole.
I’ve got new work coming out soon, I promise.