The More Things Change...
Today, I woke up before my alarm went off. I showered and dressed in a smart outfit for work. I stopped at my favorite coffee venue for my ritual cafe au lait. I walked to work down Second Avenue, umbrella in one hand and coffee in the other, looking for all the world like any other adult on their way to work.
At work, I returned calls from people who depend on me for answers. I signed off on cover copy and cover art because people trust me to do so. I attended a meeting in which I presented three potential book projects, and based on the strength of my presentations, I was given tens of thousands of dollars with which to publish those book projects. Next, I attended a lunch meeting, where I shook hands and I smiled and I made things happen.
Then I came home from work and had an antagonistic phone conversation with my mother and suddenly, I was thirteen years old again. That's right--thirteen, with a mouthful of braces and those sky-high "mall bangs" that were so popular in the late 80's/early 90's in BEAVER COUNTY, Pennsylvania.
It's not fair! Why can't you just understand me? I used to yell at her before retreating to my room to write in my journal, while she would sit in the living room with my father, discussing the injustices of being stuck with such a spoiled, disobedient, irrational, know it all daughter.
And tonight, after our argument, I hung up the phone and sat on the couch in utter frustration for several minutes, thinking, It's not fair! Why can't she just understand me?
Then I retreated to my bedroom in my 350 sq foot Upper East Side apartment to write in my journal while my mom and dad sat in their living room in BEAVER COUNTY, Pennsylvania, discussing what an irrational and know it all daughter they have.
At work, I returned calls from people who depend on me for answers. I signed off on cover copy and cover art because people trust me to do so. I attended a meeting in which I presented three potential book projects, and based on the strength of my presentations, I was given tens of thousands of dollars with which to publish those book projects. Next, I attended a lunch meeting, where I shook hands and I smiled and I made things happen.
Then I came home from work and had an antagonistic phone conversation with my mother and suddenly, I was thirteen years old again. That's right--thirteen, with a mouthful of braces and those sky-high "mall bangs" that were so popular in the late 80's/early 90's in BEAVER COUNTY, Pennsylvania.
It's not fair! Why can't you just understand me? I used to yell at her before retreating to my room to write in my journal, while she would sit in the living room with my father, discussing the injustices of being stuck with such a spoiled, disobedient, irrational, know it all daughter.
And tonight, after our argument, I hung up the phone and sat on the couch in utter frustration for several minutes, thinking, It's not fair! Why can't she just understand me?
Then I retreated to my bedroom in my 350 sq foot Upper East Side apartment to write in my journal while my mom and dad sat in their living room in BEAVER COUNTY, Pennsylvania, discussing what an irrational and know it all daughter they have.
posted by east side girl at 10:00 PM
1 Comments:
You have other authors now? You're not just sitting at your desk, drumming your fingers, waiting for my manuscript to arrive? I have to SHARE you?
*sniff*
Only kidding! I'm actually thrilled things are going so well for you. And I know what you mean - every time I talk to my parents I get that same little knot in my stomach that makes me feel like I'm STILL NOT DOING IT RIGHT. I guess you never quite get over it.
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