This evening I read a Yahoo News article about a woman who went a whole year without wearing makeup. Imagine! A whole year. No make up. But that's not all. She also didn't wear jewelry and didn't use hardly any hair product.
The result: A book deal.
I, on the other hand, almost never wear makeup and jewelry. To wit, my ear piercings are practically closed up so that if I wanted to wear earrings, I would have to perform very minor home surgery before doing so. (Notice, I'm leaving out any mention of hair product here.)
The result: The only book deal I've gotten was when I purchased Is That a Word: The Weird and Wonderful Language of Scrabble for 35% off the cover price.
The worst part is I can't help but think that the "doing something for a year and then writing about it" boat has sailed. And I missed it.
Just like I missed the "monetize your blog" boat and the "make money selling crap on Ebay" boat.
I made Jell-o every week for a long time and blogged about it, but I don't have a book deal for that. I also wrote some very helpful instructions on how to be a boy which I have on good authority would make a wonderful book. Almost as good as I could Pee on This and Other Cat Poems, I have in fact been assured.
(Yes. Someone actually pretended they were a cat writing poems about peeing on stuff and got a book deal.)
However, I am nothing if not introspective. I know, deep down, what the problem is. I've always known what the problem is. It's that I don't flirt. I refuse to flirt. I want to be recognized for my own merits and personality. Not because I degraded myself (read: make eye contact with, speak to, or in any way acknowledge another person) to get someone's attention.
This has been, in fact, more than just an idea. It's been my personal life policy: I will stand over here, against this wall, where I blend in almost perfectly, and not say a word. And the right person will notice me from across the room and somehow be able to see my talent and ability coming off me in waves of pure light without me having to say anything at all. And I will get a book deal and be the next JK Rowling.
No begging, no rejection, no humiliation.
(And here, I can hear the voice of Dr. Phil saying: How's that workin' for ya?)
No book deal, Dr. Phil.
And so, to the woman who didn't wear make up for a year and wrote a book about it I have this to say: Your stupid experiment is a straw--not the last straw--but a substantial, longish straw that will motivate me to take a risk or two. To at least get myself closer to that dock from where all the boats are leaving.
(Seriously? No makeup gets you a book deal?)