I tried - died in the wooly snarkette that I am. I did. And don't think I'm not grateful because I really am. On the other hand (and there's always the other hand), I have 'struggled' as an artist for decades to write that book. I have started. I have finished. I have not yet completed my tome. I've painted masterpieces, written poetry and music, tap danced (badly), but I have not completed a novel. I've done law school, litigated civil and criminal trials, performed stunning closing arguments (really, stunning, breath taking, tear jerking), and have left it all behind to be a hippie in the mountains. I have not written a book.
Snookie has. Snookie wrote a fucking book. Snookie. Did she even GO to high school? Okay, I didn't either, so that's not really fair, but I did go to college and law school which makes me infinitely better educated and talented and all kinds of things superior to a short fat jersey girl. She's a yankee for crying out loud. I am fair, delicate (steel) flower of the glorious south! I have done it all - all things except written a book and all things but having a written a book published by Simon & Schuster. Oh, and a tv show. Probably a movie deal coming up.
You can rebut my self flagellation with the fact (?) that the book probably sucks big green donkey dongs. Reviews tend to agree with that assessments. But reviews have been, historically, cruel to even great literature. Will it sell? Do I care? I am hell bent in the throws of a new year snookie will NOT be better than me this year kind of resolution. I don't know what I have to do to be better than Snookie this year (breath? think? anything?) but I'm determined that even if I have no class, no talent, no brains, no anything, I will at least at the end of this year have a novel finished, completed, written, done, edited and ready for any good publisher to send out the rushes. No short fat yankee bitch is gonna outdo me.