The New Yorker saved my life.
I’m feeling very disconnected with my inner artist. Julia Cameron, please forgive me. I still haven’t had a “real” writing session. I’ve been busy making a living, which frustrates me. I know I’m a writer. I real writer, because I do the damn thing compulsively. But really, let’s be honest. I can’t get past the idea that you’re not “really” a writer until you’re getting paid for it. So the things that do pay me take precedence. Since I’m not “really” a writer, after all, I say snidely to myself. Sorrow descends. Agony ensues. The tortured, wasted heart of an *blocked* artist. Julia, I hear ‘ya girl!
Then, incredibly, I get a letter in the mail from The New Yorker. Would I like to get a year’s subscription, usually costing $281.53/year, at my special discounted rate of -$252.53? Why, YES I would! Holy crap what a deal! The letter proceeds to tell me, along with a Guaranteed Low Rate, I should keep in mind The New Yorker is a collection of intelligent, penetrating, and funny voices. Every issue informs, entertains and enlightens you. And I feel delighted, and humbled, in remembering that publications such as The New Yorker are out there, and they’re really fucking good. I’ve never regretted a few hours spent digging into those black and white pages. And no matter how discouraged I get in this first serious thrust to achieving my creative dreams, the end result of all this struggle could be the pages of The New Fucking Yorker.
I read the perforated part of the letter. My total bill for a year’s subscription is a beautiful $25. A happy, unassuming $25. The cherry on top–Would you like to: 1) Enclose payment? or 2) Bill me later?. Could life get any sweeter?
Bill me later bitches!