1. You’ve considered purchasing, and/or have been gifted an old and barely working typewriter.
Because why the hell not? It’s not like these things are heavy, noisy, and impossible to bring to a coffee shop or library- live a little!
2. You own a multitude of journals in every size, shape, and color.
3. Your Amazon book wishlist is staggering.
I want the obscure poetry, the entire dystopian section and all the literary biographies. Let’s throw in a fantasy too, for good measure.
4. You hate any and all so-called ‘real’ jobs.
Wait, I have to wear pants at work? Why?!
5. Jo March is your spirit animal.
That hat, though.
6. You sometimes inhale the pages of old books like that sh** is crack.
Or at least it seems that way based on what you’ve read on the effects of crack…
7. You’re always listening to other people’s conversations.
It’s not eavesdropping- it’s research.
8. You’re paranoid that if you tell other writers your brilliant ideas, they’ll steal them and become famous and rich and scoff at your pitiful cardboard box life.
I’m just sayin’, that sh** happens.
10. No one understands you.
Except, you know, everyone you force to proofread your work. And your friends who have to hear about it and pity-read your blog. And, yeah, just about everybody.
11. And sometimes you attack people for using the wrong form of “your/you’re”.
And sometimes you use the wrong version, and your writer friends never let you forget it.
12. You often wake up thinking you’ve just developed the plot for your new novel, scribbling on your arm or whatever is closest.
Only to wake up and read “blue-ombre tiger, Venetian rug.” WTF, DREAMING SELF?!
13. You dream of someday writing in some New York apartment with brick walls and plenty of sunshine.
A minimalist desk for your writing to take place, occasionally littered with beautiful books and new pens, while classical music plays and birds chirp and your editor is on the line to congratulate you on your “making-it-ness.” Which you will have coined as a term by that point, in your very popular articles/books. Obviously.
14. Your opus stays locked away for years, until you’re ready to reread- and subsequently burn- its trite pages.
“That’s the wonderful thing about man; he never gets so discouraged or disgusted that he gives up doing it all over again, because he knows very well it is important and WORTH the doing.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
15. No one wants to watch TV with you because you’re constantly deconstructing character motives and predicting the endings.
Correctly, mind you.
16. You read and reread your favorite authors, hoping they’ll rub off on you in a non-obvious way.
And that when we’re all dead and chilling up in literary heaven they’ll be like “yo, I see what you did there,” and we’ll all laugh and share a smoke (because tobacco is cool in literary heaven.)
17. You hate almost everyone yet find them irritatingly fascinating.
18. You think you’re a lot funnier than you actually are.
Scrap that. You’re actually hilarious.
19. You’re constantly broke. Like, constantly.
20. Sometimes the simplest experiences are so profound, you have to write about them immediately.
And then hate yourself immensely.
21. You hate editing.
Isn’t that someone else’s job?
22. You were the only person in the theater who thought Midnight in Paris was laugh-out-loud funny.
23. You drink gin and call yourself a Nothinghead at parties, hoping it will work as a pick up line.
Just how Kurt Vonnegut would have wanted it.
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