I’d take a picture of it, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t see it anyway. It’s there, though. Right about three quarters of the way up my left ear. Right where my father started first going gray. One. Gray. Hair. Blamo! Instant literary cred. I’ve been waiting for this.
That’s how it works, right? I mean, hey, I’m a white dude with a gray hair. If that’s not good for a book deal, I don’t know what is.
At long last, I can look back and reflect on the tiniest details of my long, storied, amazingly intricate life (and as an upper middle class suburban twit from New Jersey, you can bet I’ve got a story no one’s EVER heard!) and weave it into complex and engaging literature that critics can hate until I die, and then really, really like. In the meantime, any colleges looking to give me cushy no-show professorships that will pay the bills while allowing me proper writing time to loaf about and “gain further life experience,” feel free to get in touch.
Goodbye sophomoric prose, self-indulgent garbage writing and one-dimensional “me in disguise” characters — and hello perspective! I just know that for every little buddy my single gray hair gets, I get that much closer to realizing my dream of having my short story collection torn apart in a hundred-word New Yorker capsule review. Bring it on.