Thursday, October 11, 2007

After talking to a literary agent about how slim my chances are of ever having any of my novels published, I proceeded to the Cantab where I read my vampire poem and drank massive quantities of bourbon with Chris and Sam (happy birthday Sam). We bitched about various things such as love and writing, then I passed out on Sam's couch. It was so... something.

2 comments:

deixis said...

ah, ain't it just the life though? poor, living in shitholes, no prospect of wealth and fame, secretly buying into the old romantic artist in a garret cliche while pretending we're only living it as a sort of ironic statement. which is, yes, writerly--the belief that life is a statement, that we need to find the right verb in order to do things.

Lisa Reade said...

finding the right verb in order to do things. so, so true. i second that.