Going On Hold

Superlatively Rude

I’ve spent the past months talking about myself as a “brand”. That is really fucking weird. It’s weird to have conversations – with myself, and publishing professionals, and other bloggers who do what I am beginning to do – about who Laura Jane Williams is and what she stands for and where she’s going and why she’s talking about herself in third person.

I make a living, right now, writing about my life, and given that I am writing a book about me, too – about my heart and soul and healing and all that juicy stuff – the levels of narcissism I’ve reached are Kardashian off-the-chart.

I don’t know if I’m not just a little sick of myself.


No Big Deal, Just My Dreams Coming True

Superlatively Rude

You guys! I am really, really excited (and nervous, and curious, and emotional andandand…) to say that I am hereto forth represented by the awe-inducingly innovative Ella Kahn, of Diamond Kahn and Woods Literary Agency.




(You can read the agency announcement here. Oh! And see my fancy author profile here.)

(!!!!!!! x forever.)

You know what? Balls to the wall. Chances. Asking the question. That’s how dreams come true. That’s how hustling happens. You don’t get if you don’t put yourself out there, and oh my Beyoncé, this past two weeks have been some of the most testing and anxiety-inducing of my writing life as I did just that. 

You Don't Have To Be Broken To Be Interesting

I suppose what I’m learning is that there’s no graduation ceremony for life.

I sort of hoped that there was.

I had sex with a man twenty years my senior, is how this story starts. Ends.

It happened somewhere in the middle.

Days before, I’d said to a new friend - an incredibly charming Austrian - “No. I’m done dicking around. I’m looking for my husband. I’m serious about love.” And that felt like a brave thing to declare, because this guy, the Austrian, he was saying how girls just need to relax. Stop putting pressure on themselves. Enjoy sex without expectation, like “men” do. So it felt like a bold thing to do, to show my cards to the table that way, because it’s emphatically not #chill. And you know what? For a really fucking long time I played the Chill Girl. I’m mortified to admit that, but I know I’m not alone. (Tell me I’m not alone). In a weird way, though, despite myself and what I know to be true and real and right, I wanted this Austrian’s approval. Wanted him to think I was cool. So I could’ve agreed. An earlier version of myself might’ve.

(Definitely would’ve.)

(It took several more conversations with said charming Austrian to ascertain he wasn’t, actually, charming. He was a chauvinistic misogynistic egotist, and nobody has the right to tell you you’re “putting too much pressure on sex”. The end.) 
Previous PostOlder Posts Home