Even though I’m known for writing about my social life, my true nature is to be a shy homebody.
I mean I’m social and outgoing, but my heart’s desire would be to stay in every night. Especially when it gets dark at four o’clock, and very, very especially when it rains, which it does here in Seattle allfrickinwinterlong. I have to fight the staying-in urge because I’m already home writing all day and I really wouldn’t have a life if I gave into my cozylust.
I also think I get sort of an insidious low-grade depression when I isolate. So lately I’ve been prying myself out of the house and into the world. Not even the noble excuse of writing is keeping me in because I have a tiny purse-size laptop I can bring anywhere.
I even ordered business cards to give to people I meet at bars and parties so they don’t have to carefully write down “DatingAmy.com” after talking to me for a half hour. (Although, seriously? I picked that name because I thought it was, uh, memorable.)
The other night I went to 10 Mercer and had a glass of happy hour chardonnay (J. Lohr) and wrote a few pages of the California memoir. So this older couple sitting across from me asked what I was doing; I said I was writing a memoir about moving to Los Angeles with a back pack when I was in my 20s to become a singer (To which the older gentleman, by the way, said: “Was that in the 70s?” No offense to people who actually were born in the 40s and 50s, but I… wasn’t.) Anyway, the first question anyone asks about the Cali memoir is: Did you meet famous people? To which the answer is, of course, yes. Because in Los Angeles famous people walk among earthlings.
It’s funny, because to me the new book is about dreams and rock ‘n roll bad boys and reconciling the death of my father and music and sex and heartbreak and soaring romance.
But yes, there are a lot of famous people that I met in it.
You’d think with my years of marketing experience I’d know what’s important by now.
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