WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
So I went to a meeting of writers, and I couldn't wait to get out of it and get back home. Here is how it went.
- "What are you writing?" "Oh, I've been working in the past year on my second novel." And I think, I'm writing my 6th novel and it took me 4 months, so I'm a fucking weirdo.
- "My grandmother died, but the whole family was there." "Oh, poor thing!" And I think, well, my grandpa just died in Russia and nobody was there except my mom who didn't have enough money for a funeral.
- "So did you see that TV show where that guy..." "Oh, yeah!" And I think, I don't watch TV, can we talk about writing?
- "I was such a rebel at 16! Where you a rebel?" "Certainly. I wore all the wrong clothes." And I think, I ran away from home at 16 because I was abused, got pregnant at 17, became a mom at 18.
They were all fantastic people, but I just felt like I shouldn't even open my mouth so as not to spoil their mood, and all I wanted was to go home and bury my head in a book. Which I'm about to do. On the bus on my way home now. I must be a writing fanatic or something, but taking about little things does not interest me. I want to talk craft, and I want to talk about it on a high enough level that would let me learn something new. Otherwise I feel like it's a waste of my time. Am I crazy?