Manolo says, here is the Manolo latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.
I am a lonely writer, and day after day I get nothing but rejections in the mail. It is extremely discouraging, and today’s boatload of rejections make me so sad I’m just sitting around, eating a stale muffin in my jammies. My shoe wardrobe consists of sensible pumps, sensible flats, and sensible kicks. Take me on a much needed flight of fancy. Get me out of my rut.
Manolo says, everyone imagines that the life of the freelance writer is muy romantico. You wake up late, do thirty or forty minutes of typing, dress in your comfortably artistic clothing (perhaps with the leather elbow patches) your hair charmingly disheveled above your high-tech retro eyewear. Then, it is the late lunch with your agent, followed by the series of readings in quaint bookshops, given to throngs of adoring fans, all of whom have named at least one child after the hero of your first novel.
Sadly, if you are the average freelancer, you wake up early each morning worried about paying the bills and the decline of the American reading public, and then spend hours slaving away at the computer. Worse, none of your old artistically comfortable clothing fits because you work in the kitchen, only two steps from the refrigerator, and so naturally, you would be embarrassed to meet any of your fans, hypothetical though they may be.
For fancy-flying and rut-busting, the Manolo recommends the always amusing L.A.M.B. by Gwen Steafani, perhaps the Ladonna, the strappy, stiletto-heeled sandals in red patent.