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Today I discovered I am not a writer.

Sure I try- 300 words a day.

I consider myself to be a pretty conservative reader
and admit there are fairy tales & books with happy endings.

A strange imprisonment.

I try not to let them get to me.

I am a real person.

I’m a biter.

I’m in love with my husband and kids.
(I promised my family I wouldn’t talk about my nose ring.)

I am a reluctant bachelorette.

I am currently writing the second book. This one takes place right after the events of the first book.
Zak and Lisabeth put their void where prohibited by law.

I enjoy reading, acting, portrait painting, directing plays, cooking, planning elaborate parties and chasing my lucky bird.

This is embarrassing since I am among friends.

I grew up in Maine.

I’m planning to write a collective voice of nagging naysay that convinces me that I might as well just pack up my typewriter and go home.

Does that mean I’m working in public relations at General Electric?

I’m a procrastinator.
I’m a speaker.
I am an English writer, not a British one.
I’m a pussy.
I am dashingly handsome.
I’m a doctor.

I’m not the only one bothered by letting guilt finally force me to do something, anything…

I’m not a writer.

 

– by Inspired Kathy (author of iamareader.com), the authors of several other web pages whose identities were lost in the creation of this flarf poem, and Mark Snyder.

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