Well, of course.
Why not? No reason.
Why? Mostly because I have a ten page story due tomorrow and I've three pages of it.
There's nothing to put you in the mood to write for fun like writing for a purpose. Oh, how divinely artistic am I feeling right now. What, you don't believe me?
Of course you don't, wily reader, of course not.
I've been having incredibly trippy dreams lately. The other night in my sleep I wrote an existential manifesto with the Feditor. I then apologized to him for having been so rotten lately, though I'm not quite sure what I've done. The next night I was seduced by the devil, who was, for some strange reason, a Ken doll and married already to Barbie, who was already there.
There's a scarf outside my window blowing in the wind, and the first time I saw it I thought it was a dying pidgeon.
I have to figure out whether it's appropriate to write short stories that have philosophical content, or whether that's just wanking. I have a feeling that it may indeed be cliché poseur french girl wanking. Oh, look at me! I'm bloody Sartre. Oh, wait. I'm not. Why? Because I'm doomed to be bloody Simone de Beauvoir.
When in the history of the world has a woman ever been on top without having been "a remarkable lady writer," or a "lovely female author?"
Is it too much to ask just to be a writer?
