A List of Random Things That Are Hindering My Chances of Becoming a Famous Writer

I keep telling myself that one day this writing thing is really going to happen for me. Although I’ve made a pretty good go of it so far, I crave something even bigger. I want to see my name scattered over the bookshelves of the people I regularly stalk.

Brown’s groundbreaking essay on the horror of being a clown in an age of coulrophobia changed my entire outlook on my literary career thus far.

— Predictions of quotes that Stephen King may write about me at some point in future history.

King isn’t tweeting about my awesomeness (yet), but I did have someone ask me why my face looks the way it does on my profile pic the other day.

Author’s screenshot

So that’s gotta be something, right?

This brings me to my point. Sure, I can talk big about my one-day fame, but the thing about truly successful people is that you’ve got to do something to become a success. In my case, I’ve got to get some writing done.

And that is the problem. I have so many things distracting me (like daydreaming of fame) that I can’t seem to produce any actual work.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps if I got all of my procrastination crutches out of me and onto the screen (an exorcism, if you will), I would be able to buckle up and get down to business.

So here goes nothing.

I resemble the swampiest of swamp monsters when I’m on a writing roll.

I don’t shower or apply makeup. I wear the same clothes for days and am generally a disgusting human to be around. But I get shit done. I don’t know if I’m truly ready to forgo my personal hygiene in the name of words.

Not yet, at least.

There is a weird smell coming from my bathroom.

It’s like a burnt rubber tang, and unfortunately, my office is right across from the bathroom, so I keep getting whiffs of it while staring blankly at my snow-white screen.

At first, I thought Jamie had taken a weird-smelling poop, so I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass him.

But it’s been 3 hours now, and the stench persists. Upon further investigation, I learned he had installed a new shower curtain liner, and it’s one of those super thick plastic ones and apparently, the smell of those things liiiiiingers.

People are blocking and reporting my boob articles.

I recently was made aware via my article’s comment section that writing about my boob falling out of my shirt was so unbelievably offensive to a reader that they had to report the story as well as block me.

Author’s awesome screenshot that really makes her feel good about herself.

They never want to see the likes of my weird-ass profile photo ‘round these parts again.

I wanted to reply to the comment to defend myself and, maybe, explain the joke further (because that’s always a good idea) but was unable to since they had already blocked me.

They didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself, and that mere fact is eating me alive, man.

My dog is adorable and must get pets and love whenever I look in her general direction.

This is, unfortunately, a much larger problem regarding my productivity than I’d care to admit.

I quit smoking cigarettes a few weeks ago.

Don’t get too excited. I’m now vaping, and I feel like a giant douche. But the good thing is, I’m too embarrassed to be seen vaping in public, so I’ve cut back drastically on smoking due to pure shame.

I don’t know how this applies to me not working, but there is a direct correlation in my brain.

I keep telling myself I need to write a book.

The problem is, I don’t know how to write a book! I’ve been writing essays and internet articles for so long I have no idea how to translate that into book form.

Like, what the fuck is a chapter and paragraph indents?

I have now wasted so much of the past month trying to write a book I feel like I should just write a book about failing to write a book.

I waste a lot of time cutting my own hair.

To be clear, I should not cut my hair. My hairdresser spends too much time telling me not to cut my own hair. But then, I notice all the dead ends in the reflection of my blank word processing screen, and that prompts me to run to grab the kitchen scissors (don’t tell Jamie I use the kitchen scissors to cut my hair, please) and start snipping away at the rat’s nest that is my dead ends.

This always ends with me standing in front of a sink full of tiny clipped hair clumps and a very uneven doo while reciting the mantra, “It’s okay Lindsay, it’ll grow back, you don’t have to cry.”

Again, I waste an inordinate amount of time doing this.

I’m trying to be a better person.

The problem is, I just don’t think I’m cut out for that sort of thing.

Considering other people’s feelings and, I dunno, donating to charities actually makes me feel a little queasy. Of course, I’d do all the donating in the world if I was making bank from my writing — that shit’s a tax write-off.

But right now? I’m making enough to pay my bills, so — I’m good, thanks.

Except I keep seeing all my friends and family growing and maturing into upstanding members of society. Hell, my kids are way more woke than I’ll ever be.

So I feel this nagging peer pressure to be better. And worrying endlessly about that takes up a lot of time that could be better spent writing articles about the awesomeness of being me.

I get irrational when people “like” my Facebook posts and comments.

Doesn’t this deserve a laughy reaction or a heart? I’ll scream internally while replying to their comment. How dare you not provide the utmost of Facebook reactions to my very witty way of social commentary.

This eats me up inside.

I’m finding it increasingly difficult to end articles.

There I’ll be, trying to wrap up a piece, and I’ll just keep going on and on and on, and before I know it, I’ve written a book, but it’s not a book because, as previously mentioned, I don’t know how to write a book.

. . .

So before this thing turns into a non-book book, I shall bid you adieu.

Don’t like ads? Become a supporter and enjoy The Good Men Project ad free

I still haven’t written anything of substance, and you know what? Maybe I never will. Perhaps old Steve will have to find another former clown writer to inadvertently teach him how his story about a killer clown ruined the livelihoods of clowns everywhere.

—

This post was previously published on it’s just foam.

***

Join The Good Men Project as a Premium Member today.

All Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS.

A $50 annual membership gives you an all access pass. You can be a part of every call, group, class and community.
A $25 annual membership gives you access to one class, one Social Interest group and our online communities.
A $12 annual membership gives you access to our Friday calls with the publisher, our online community.