Note to Self: Next time you consider death by chocolate, read this. Twice. Once for getting your jollies off, the second time to see how low you're willing to stoop for a bit of snark attention.
Life Lesson #69: If your mother wears Army boots, you either have to love the roar of the greasepaint or the smell of the crowd. Matter of fact, it's best if you are only addicted to the smell of the crowd. With a ground-pounder Mom, you can't expect to make it in the world of fine literature.
Ignore the subtext of literary glibberish that comes at you from the likes of Bat Segundo. With a mom who expects a salute before breakfast, you can bet a phalanx of promenading poodles that she's never going to want you to simply drop everything and give me ten ... books. Oh, no. She's threatened by the idea that the pen is mightier than the sword. Your love of writing isn't going to win points from her, and your potential for achieving literary attention from Bat S. is zero-to-none.
Death by chocolate is too rich a happy ending for the likes of you. Get a grip. Your destiny is to end up eating your own words, not chocolate. No publisher's dying to make a galleycat out of you. The tripe you're writing now won't ever make it to the galley stage of publication, let alone to the TIME's Best Seller list. Not the convoluted way you try to nail the truth to the page. You'd best get your burbling rear in gear. Your only salvation is to keep honing your skills until you have a chance of becoming a bunion on some poor, overworked agent's foot. That would be a start. Just don't end up a pain in the neck.
Put down that half gallon of Hunka Chunka chocolate and muddle along on your own wordsy trail, my friend. Otherwise you'll end up on shrink's wall -- a taxidermied head, sticking out like a glassy-eyed terrapin, a beheaded ET trophy that speaks of the shrink's ability to hunt down weirdos and mount them...in one fashion or another. No wishy-washy will-of-the-wisp is going to get George Clooney's attention. If you want him to play the role of your
hunka-chunka protag, you've gotta get your own version of Army boots and keep marching to your own synchopated rhythms.
What's that I hear in the background? A reedy voiced wannabe singing, "These boots are made for walkin'?" Oh, how trite. But, considering the level of literature in this "Note to Self," it figures. You can take the girl out of the barracks, but you can't expect her to be comfy in three inch heels. Guess you gotta write what you know, but you could do it with more finesse. At least you jumped through every hoop. Better luck next time. Don't give up the ship, blow her up! This is no job for the feinthearted... or do I mean faint hearted???
Stop reading. Get back to writing. Now. And don't bother with that salute. I know when I'm being flipped off!
Disqualifed for word count: 519. Let me know if there's a mistake.