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Losing the Will to Write

I thought I would write forever.
I thought it was something I would do. And then I'd just, you know, die.
Now, I'm not so sure.
Funny--I don't really miss it: the fussing over mots juste, the rejections, the hopeless, doomed feeling of an ambitious novel concept that will never see a publication date or a check.
Nope.
I'm kind of more into the whole idea of making money. You buy this thing cheap and you sell it for more. And you keep doing that until you have enough money to buy a pony, which is to say, you never have enough money to just buy a pony, because ponies continue to eat, and they need their shoes nailed on every 6 weeks and they sometimes eat too much and you have to call the vet out in the middle of the night, which can add up to some real money.
And I really just want a pony.
So I'm taking nearly everything out of my closet and selling it: Laboutin shoes, Gucci boots, Lanvin dresses, Hermes scarves, Cavalli pants. Yeah, I said I wanted to keep those, but to hell with it.

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