Truth. All of it.
The whole professional writer thing is the only game I have. To an unsuspecting potential mate, I’m just like every other unremarkable femme with long dark hair and glasses in the bar. But when they ask me what I do with my time and I reply with, “I’m a writer, editor, poetess and photojournalist, who runs one of the top 100 LGBT blogs in the world,” they melt.
I understand wanting to f-ck a writer. Or date one. I can’t blame you. We’re alluring. We’re elusive. We’re romantic. We’re witty. But you really need to know what you’re getting into.
We have no money.
We writers pour our hearts into soul-sucking work for next to nothing. That means we’re always going Dutch.
We can’t help it.
I’ve always been a storyteller. As a child, I wrote plays for each holiday and made my sister act them out with me, each…
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