9 Ways To (Pretend To) Be A Writer
1. Wherever you go, carry a black Moleskine around. Don’t have it in your bag though, of course. Carry it at your side with a black pen in the other hand, or, ideally, prominently placed behind your ear.
2. Drop some form of the line, “Yeah, I was thinking of putting something like that in my novel” into casual conversation. Example: Your girlfriend says, “I’ve actually been fighting depression for nearly a decade. I’m so happy I can talk to you about it though.” You: “Yeah, I was thinking of giving one of my character’s in my new novel depression. You can be my consultant. It’s gonna be a great book. Glad to hear about your depression.”
3. Live in Paris, New York or London. San Francisco is an acceptable alternative, but not ideal. People are too happy there.
4. Memorize a sentence from The New Yorker or The Atlantic and use it with friends or, preferably, in class so your teacher can also hear it. Multiple birds and stone situation.
5. Have at least three blogs. Even if you don’t update them you can say, “I write for a variety of publications” and only sort of be lying.
6. Tweet and Facebook links to articles you haven’t read but have smart sounding headlines.
7. Sit in cafés. You can mess around on Facebook, browse Vanity Fair, stalk your ex – it doesn’t matter, just be in that “writer atmosphere.”
8. Post statuses saying you’re “Doing a little writing” or “Not going to let this third act problem get the best of me. Pushing forward!” Tweet it, Facebook it, Instagram it, Tumble it, WordPress it, put it in LinkedIn experience. Do what you have to do, just be sure everyone knows.
9. Write one article. Someone will eventually ask to see your writing. The rest can be “works in progress.”
13. SEAMLESS it up. Tweet about how much you like seamless. Pat yourself on the back for being so groundbreakingly original.
By Lance Pauker
I never set out to break the girl code, but my habits won over my morals and with every drink, my inhibitions loosened.
In the brief amount of time it takes to reach your train station, hit the front of the lunch line, or collect your latte, you’ve somehow managed to project an intricate life together with this person, and, as you obviously know nothing about them, you kindly, thoughtfully, take the initiative of filling in the blanks.
Surrounded by crowds, but still lonely. Alone in your apartment and still lonely.