I once wrote a series of cootie-catcher fortunes for an event featuring my grads reading from their work– the idea was to have them play the fortune telling game by way of introductions.  I thought I was so fun and clever but I remember them being really bummed out…

Anyhow I found the file where I wrote the fortunes {you can imagine the year by the Oprah reference}:

Oprah will give living writers one more shot. She’ll pick you. Nothing will ever be the same again.

You will live in a cave in the woods, grow a long beard, write on bark. A crow will deliver your work to the big wigs in NYC. You will never be sure if they love you for your work or your legend.

You will open a bakery. You will write on cakes. Everything you write will be delicious; your work will be longed for and devoured.

You will have a gifted child. Your child will speak in her sleep what you always wanted to write. You will record what she says and save it for her to submit to literary magazines on her sixteenth birthday. But by then she’ll think it’s stupid and she won’t let you.

You will move back in with your parents. You’ll think it’s going to suck, but turns out everyone loves and respects you so much you don’t feel a need to write anymore anyway.

You will meet a tall dark stranger. Your writing future remains shrouded in mystery.

Don’t worry, your first book will be awesome, but no one will understand it. It’ll be because you are ahead of your time.

You’ll get bonked on the head with an anvil. You’ll become like that guy in memento. You’ll keep writing, of course, one sentence at a time—the best way—and actually, everyone will love your book, but you won’t remember writing it, and after a while people will get sick of explaining to you how great you are.

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