THE WRITER

The thing is, I will not be famous.

I will continue to go unrecognized in grocery aisles and record stores. Paparazzi will not pop from bushes, star maps will not highlight my house, fans will not hyperventilate and scream my name from across the street.

There will be no articles about how I'm the Next Big Thing, how I'm the unique voice of my generation or how I'm the product of a nice, solid Midwestern family with a history of female depression.

I will not be invited to any movie premieres or award show festivities. Valentino and Givenchy aren't going to be clamoring to fit me in imported silk anytime soon.

I will never be friends with Angelina or share a smoke with Shirley. I won't get to swap style secrets with Amy or watch Trent rage backstage. And I certainly will not have a fucked-up (yet satisfying) affair with Johnny.

They won't search my journals for sordid secrets once I am dead. No one will buy the movie rights to the books written about my life, either, because there aren't going to be any books.

There is just going to be me and my small life. Just another day like this one. Boy. Dog. Fog rolling in from the ocean down the street.

But as long as the words still come when I call, all the rest is just fine by me.

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