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performance anxiety

Ah, how things change when you realize people are actually reading what you write.  I guess writing is so personal and such a part of me that if someone doesn’t like what I’ve wrote, my first reaction is that a little part of ME is being rejected. But, my previous participation in a cult has paid off well; I can now say that I am NOT an approval suck and I am willing to take the risk of rejection in order to become the writer I am meant to be.

Still, today for Day 3, I’ll just kind of blather on about something not too personal (as opposed to growing up an only child, Asian and living in Iowa) or controversial (such as drug use and orgies)(now I’m just being dramatic). I’ll start with strawberries.


This used to be a strawberry smoothie, made from one of the many quarts of strawberries I purchased from a Mexican guy who came to my door this morning. This apparently is a southern CA thing; I don’t remember ever getting door-to-door fruit salesman in norCal, and certainly not in Iowa.

I bought $20 worth of strawberries in part because I felt sorry for the guy who was earnestly selling me on the freshness of the berries, straight from the farm, and in part because I was planning on giving some of them away, and also because it was a good deal. I should take a picture of the buckets of berries now in my rightful possession, but Baby is sleeping and lord help me if I wake him up…

It’s weird to buy food from some guy off the street, unlicensed and unknown. We Americans buy our produce, aged, safely wrapped in plastic on a supermarket shelf. The lawyer in me said “E coli! Stolen property! If you get sick, there’s no one to sue! Assumption of the risk!” The paranoid weirdo in me said “Poison! Assassins! Run for safety; there will be more following him!”

I decided that if I were ever to become a ghost writer for a popular mystery series, something I have honestly never thought about, I’d include a story where the ambassador has an attempt on his life made by a hit man disguised as a farm worker selling fruit door-to-door.

Good thing I just want to be a comedy writer. Hey, maybe that’ll work too.



I used to think being an attorney was a tough job. Then I had kids.

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