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.


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.