| Angie Counios
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.
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.