Cocktail party conversation between me and a mental-health advocate.
Counselor: You should consider journaling.
Me: You know that’s not a real verb. Right?
Counselor (stiffly): You should consider writing a journal. A daily journal.
Me: Who would buy that?
Counselor (perplexed): Nobody would buy it. It’s for you. It’s a way to get in touch with your innermost thoughts.
Me: You suggest I write something that nobody’s going to buy? Because, before CRASHERS and BREAKING POINT got published, I did that. A lot. I wrote a ton of @#$&* that nobody bought. Honestly, this is better.
Counselor (as to a demented toddler): Journal-writing is for you. It’s not for others.
Me: It’s writing that nobody else will ever see?
Me: Do you want to see my filing cabinet of unpublished manuscripts? I gotta tell you: I am the mother-@#$%&* master of journaling.
Counselor (over my shoulder): Oh. I’m sorry. I need to go talk to … could you excuse me?
I vector toward the food table.