This is what I’m striving for. I discovered Celia Rivenbark’s wonderfulness via another blog last week, and I heart her so much. Think of her as sort of a Southern Carrie Fisher, without all the Vicodin and celebrity parents. Poke around a little bit, and you’ll get what I’m aiming for.
You see, I’m not sure my writing knows what it wants to be yet. And, I swear to baby Jesus, I’m not fishing for compliments here. I know that writing is what I “do”, and if I ever feel down, I always have my sweet daddy to tell me how awesome I am. But, the problem is, like so much in my life, my tastes are frustratingly eclectic.
Sometimes when I write, I want my readers to laugh like they would at Erma Bombeck or David Sedaris. Other times I want to make them weep inconsolably like I did at The Notebook (Yeah, I read it. So?) or The Secret Life of Bees. Occasionally I want to have the rare and much-coveted ability to scare the crap out of people, like Stephen King can. And still other times, when I’m broke and there’s a sale at Target, all I want to do is get on Oprah’s book list and make piles of moolah.
Mostly, I think, I want to do all these things, but especially the being funny part. Like Ms. Celia, I really, in my heart of hearts, want to get paid to be a smart ass. And, just so you know, in my family, this would be the equivalent of of becoming a doctor.
I guess I’m just trying to find my style and summon it at will. My deepest, truest hopes are this style would be a fabulous combination of Scarlett O’Hara, Fannie Flagg, The Ya-Ya Sisterhood, Julia Sugarbaker and a big ol’ thermos of grapefruit juice and vodka.
It’s good to have goals.
And, if I do happen to hit upon just the right mix of the above and become a bestselling writer, I promise to invite you all over to my newly-renovated, cute-as-a-button shotgun house on St. Charles Street in New Orleans. We’ll sip bourbon and lime and nibble pimento cheese sandwiches off of pink and black cocktail napkins engraved with funny things I’ve said. I’ll be very Southern and charming with a biting wit and wry smile and wear only Ralph Lauren’s summer collection and big hats and sunglasses. We’ll stroll around my garden in the back with my two dogs, Stuart and Brett, and I’ll sign copies of my book for all your friends while we laugh about the stupid teacher who kicked me out of her Academically Gifted class when I was in 5th grade.
You will come, won’t you?