It’s Official
There’s still a patch of snow near here that I pass on my way to work, but I’m already sick of mowing the lawn. I should be living a life of the mind, lolling about and suffering bouts of ennui between furious bursts of writing, not puttering around behind a lawn mower (I once heard a wanna-be author make pretty much that argument to an agent (about why she shouldn’t have to write query letters, not mow the lawn) – didn’t go over well). Anyway, I’m pretty sure F. Scott Fitzgerald didn’t have to mow his lawn.