|SAVE ME! Now for the low, low price of $500.|
Faithful subjects, gaze into the future with me.
I plan on having twenty kids minimum. What does this mean for you? This means that your future will be largely comprised of twenty baby showers and twenty baby gifts at approximately $50 each, so put this down in your planner: before the world ends, you’ll have spent at least $1000 on my screaming, vomiting, irritating progeny.
OR THERE’S PLAN B!!!! (It’s hard to escape the double entendre here.)
Plan B is that instead of spending $1000 on screaming babies that you really don’t want to touch and gulping down a wave of nausea as you see me approaching, clad in a fetching muumuu, holding out my latest offspring and shrieking “DONTCHA WANNA HOLD HER?!?!??!”…instead of all that, you could contribute a mere half of that sum, $500, to give me the Life Fix that I currently need.
Capiche? Hugh, are you listening?
I shall elaborate. Right now, I’m sitting at Intelligentsia and trying to work on my story while keeping one and a half eyes on the clock so that I don’t exceed my alloted 1-hour lunch break. This is not a sustainable model for getting any real writing done! An hour here, an hour there, a little Facebook checking in between, a long wait for a cappuccino, trying not to eavesdrop on the awkward couple to my right–yeah, the story will just not be happening today. I changed the phrase “rustling leaves” into “rustle of leaves,” so that deserves a Pulitzer, but major edits? Moving great chunks of plot around? Spying gaping holes in logic? AS IF!
In the immortal words of Britney: I need TIME. I need SPACE. Ima SLAVE 4 U.
What I need, seriously, is about two weeks away from Chicago. I need to be in the country, to get inspiration pumped into me intravenously like Keats in Ode to a Nightengale. I need to be away from the Internet (though I will need a massive dictionary and maybe Wikipedia) and I especially need to be away from other “artists.” (Attractive bass players? We’ll talk.) When half my day is spent going through the worst slush pile in the history of the world, how am I supposed to gather my forces, think to myself “This is meaningful! This is worthwhile!” and write? I can’t! I freak out at the low-grade fiction being pumped intravenously into the arteries of the universe and I shrivel and die, despairing at the lack of real aesthetic anywhere and the hipsters that overrun Chicago with their fake version of the semi-real thing. And yes, I will use the word “intravenously” as many times as I can in this post DAMMIT!
Why now, Tori? Why the sudden outburst, the desperate grab for my pocketbook that feels suspiciously like you’re trying to grope me? I need this two week trip now because: I have a real project in mind. A REAL THING that I want to DO. This is really rare for me–I like to skip from story to story like a hummingbird in flight, but I finally have something I want to sit down and concentrate on and sink my teeth into. And I cannot, cannot, cannot do that at Intelligentsia, in between apartments, on my lunch hour, with the slush pile waiting for me.
So please, fund my own personal writer’s retreat. I will let you read my memoir called Bumpkin: I Am What Not Self-Indulgent Tree Brooklyn Marquez–OH SNAP didn’t mean to let that slip–before anyone else. All for the low, low cost of $500. Don’t make me have those 20 children. Intravenously. I’m serious, Hugh.