Hey, it’s Anna.
I attempted to start this blog, 2 fucking years ago.
And it sat, collecting internet detritus from the world shaking loose all that dusty Russian Facebook debacle. Doing nothing.
I also attempted to start an online zine.
Which once again, amounted to nothing. #mania. Is that how the kids are saying it these days? Also – how is finstagram even a thing? I’m getting so old.
Anyhow, originally, I thought I would review books and it would be so cute, because I would call romance novels literature. And then Terri Gross would find out about me and we’d chat and I’d write a column reviewing garbage “literature” for the New York Times.
But here I sit, dog sitting, still making minimum wage.
No Fresh Air for me.
Now, I’ve got a year old master’s degree from Big Green and it feels like I’m writing even less. The whole point of asking Barack Obama for all that money for graduate school was to write, right?
Hence the old bloggy blog. And the two unfinished novels I’m attempting to finish. And that play that only exists in my head in that weird intermittent dream space when I get distracted by a smell and am overcome by a memory. And all those Modern Love columns on my desktop.
If I monetize the ads, does that means I can still lie and tell people I freelance? Who am I kidding, I’ll lie about freelancing whether or not this blog makes me diddly.
p.s. whenever I write the word whether, I’m instantly transported back to the SMS library and spell bowl practice with Mrs. Clemons. She told us there were three of those homonyms – whether, weather and wether. She also taught me how to spell Cincinnati and a capella.