Last night I was working on my novel when I naturally began picturing my life as if it was a narrative. I do that often. I know, it's not normal.
I began thinking about the sort of protagonist I would be: a very young, stuggling writer dicking around in junior college while she struggles with figuring out if she's going to major in journalism or anthropology and managing to live a fairly healthy lifestyle with absolutely no money.
And, you know, there's the obsessive compulsive disorder that needs to be put under control before she can get a car and, as a result, a job that isn't freelance writing.
Then I started thinking about how many of Stephen King's protagonists are odd and/or struggling writers, and that made me paranoid that my entire life was really nothing but a Stephen King book.
Image by Getty Images via @daylife
I began thinking about the sort of protagonist I would be: a very young, stuggling writer dicking around in junior college while she struggles with figuring out if she's going to major in journalism or anthropology and managing to live a fairly healthy lifestyle with absolutely no money.
And, you know, there's the obsessive compulsive disorder that needs to be put under control before she can get a car and, as a result, a job that isn't freelance writing.
Then I started thinking about how many of Stephen King's protagonists are odd and/or struggling writers, and that made me paranoid that my entire life was really nothing but a Stephen King book.
Image by Getty Images via @daylifeGod, I hope he lets me die with dignity.
Or at least naked.
This is worse than the time when I watched Silence of the Lambs and became inexplicably frightened that Anthony Hopkins could read my mind.
I've been paranoid about a lot of people reading my minds ever since I was ten and watched a TV show about it. This is actually the one thing I haven't told my psychiatrist; I'm terrified that I'll keep revealing crazier and crazier things until I'm eventually committed.
Or worse, they tell my mom what I'm telling them. She can't handle what she knows already. I know they're not supposed to unless it sounds like I'm going to hurt someone, and I know I'm not doing that, so I should be good. Too bad being scared of things coming to pass that can't possibly happen is sort of the dealbreaker, here.
Whelp, I just heard something trying to get in through my window. I think I'm going to get off of here for the time being and figure out just what the Hell one does when one is the protagonist in a Stephen King book.
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