peter shares an embarrassing secret
I’ve been doing this thing lately where I look over the top of my glasses like I’m a naughty librarian.
I should really stop doing that.
Though I think we can all agree, I’d make the naughtiest librarian the Dewey Decimal System has EVER seen.
Books are nifty.
I write books.
It’s fun and stuff.
And when I am slogging along, in the middle of writing them, I like to visualize being finished.
Sharing it with friends. Getting positive feedback from strangers. Holding it in my hand.
Rolling naked in a pile of them.
It’s great for motivation to keep writing, even when you’re tired or there’s a Pawn Stars marathon on TV.
When I was writing #$@%ing Read Me, and it was flowing, I was totally imagining–
I can’t believe I’m going to admit this.
I was totally imagining being on Oprah. You know, for her book club thingy.
I may or may not have spent time composing replies (in my head) to any questions she might have come up with.
“What made you become a writer?”
“I have an inflated ego and a general disdain for manual labour,” I would reply.
“Did you have any doubts that you could write a book?” she’d ask.
“My friend, I drink from a cocktail that is one part naivete, one part arrogance, and one part… vermouth.”
“How does it taste?”
“Kinda gross. But it gets you where you need to go.”
“What does your girlfriend think about the way you write women?”
“Opie — can I call you Opie?”
“Oprah, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
The audience would “Awwww.”
(It is important to note that this was during those dark and dreary days BA – Before Ashley.)
“I find that surprising.”
“It is one of the world’s greatest mysteries,” I’d agree. “Well that and how a thermos works.”
“But I read on your blog–,” Oprah would begin, putting her hand on my arm.
“I read on your blog that you have a little crush on Anne Hathaway.”
“I talked to Anne’s people about her coming today–”
I’d spin around in my seat, jumpier than a virgin at a prison rodeo.*
(*Yes, I stole that line from Golden Girls. It’s awesome and everyone should know it.)
“But Anne couldn’t make it.”
“We do have Princess Diaries 2 on Blu-Ray…” Oprah would tell me.
“As if I don’t already own PD2, come on…” I’d mumble.
Then Anne Hathaway would come out.
The audience would gasp and put their hands to their mouths as if they saw Justin Bieber and the shirtless abs werewolf from Twilight playing ultimate frisbee in their backyard..
Anne Hathaway would hug me.
I’d linger entirely too long.
She’d smell like chocolate Poptarts and happy.
We’d go to a commercial break for a laxative for women, and Anne would lean over to me.
“So you have a crush on me?” she’d ask.
“I hope I didn’t disappoint in person.”
“I’m just thankful the applause drowned out my audible swoons.”
“So. You wanna to make some very bad decisions with a very good guy?”
“You’re quite charming, you know,” she’d point out.
“I get that a lot.”
And later we’d make out backstage a little.
Me and Anne, not me and Oprah.
As far as you know.
Then I’d realize I ‘d been daydreaming about it for a half and hour and get back to writing.