| Angie Counios

Writing is damn glamorous

The idea of the writer is pretty romantic.

I confess to anyone reading this post that even I fall for the notion that being a writer, artist, or musician is freakin' glamorous and cool.

Sometimes I get comfy on my couch with my laptop and I hope that I channel some awesome writers: Margaret Atwood for my inner feminist, Hemingway for my cliché creative soul, and the fictional Hank Moody for my inner bad ass.

I create plots. I get to make any environment I want (with Dave's agreement). I also get to put people in those places and get them to do cool stuff. It's awesome!

Sometimes I have wine. Other times I have tea or coffee. Sometimes I wear lipstick. Whatever ritual or non-ritual I do somehow embodies this romantic writer's notion—until yesterday.

Yesterday glam went out the window with the last of the shitty insta-poo coffee or the five dollar wine that no one admits to drinking.

I had to go through the first half of the book and look for a specific over used word and then thesaurus the hell out of that word and even the numbers on how many times it appeared in 220 pages.

Tedious. Boring.

But necessary.

And a total check-in that sometimes work is glory and glam. And sometime it is guts and actual work.

When I was done, Dave sang my praises for completing such a task (because it was necessary). I had to take a brain break.

I went out and did yard work to shift my brain completely from the job. I pulled weeds, watered flowers, and swept the patio.

Not exactly glamorous but I bet Martha Stewart would argue that.

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