When I finally get around to writing something, it will be intensely profound and dark and deep and will make people think, Wow, she gets it. But it will also be hysterical.

When I finally write something, I will write it by hand, in a coffee shop. They say that the written word is dead, but not on my watch. When I write, I’ll write in a frenzy and then rip out a page that I don’t like and toss it across the coffee shop until a large pile forms. The baristas won’t mind, though—they understand that it’s all part of my writerly process, because that’s how important my writing is.

Scratch that. When I write the thing, I’ll be sitting at my desk at midnight, a glass of whiskey next to me as an oil lamp flickers in the darkness. It will also somehow be the year 1822. This time-travel event will surprise me for a minute, but, as I swirl my glass of port, or Scotch, or whatever it is, the idea will come to me. An idea like no other. I’ll dip my feather quill into my ink and write deep into the night.

And, when I write something, hours and hours of research will need to be done, with no time to spend playing with my hypothetical children who are also from the year 1822. Because, when I write something, I’ll be consumed by my art. My hypothetical children from 1822 will grow to resent me, but later in life they’ll understand that it was all worth it, once they read my very successful words. They’ll be, like, “Alas, I get thee now. And all that time spent ignoring me was worth it. I no longer resent thee.” And my relationship with my hypothetical children will be stronger than ever, because I wrote something.

No, actually, when I write something, it will be on a plane. I’ll be furiously typing up all the observational humor, the inspired scenes, until—BAM! The plane takes a dive and goes down. But I was in such a relaxed, trancelike state from my writing that I didn’t even notice we crashed. I’ll look up from the rubble and think, Well, hey, something else to write about.

When I write something, it’ll be alone in the woods at night, because of the whole plane-crash thing. I’ll have to carve the words into a tree because all my paper and pens turned to ash, and I’ll be starving and literally dying of thirst, but the words will pour out of me anyway, because that’s the kind of dedication that I have to my craft.

I’ll spend eight hours a day, every day, carving my writing into that tree. It’ll be the best thing that I’ll ever write, and the best thing that humanity will ever lay eyeballs on. Humanity doesn’t even deserve to read such amazing writing, but I’ll give it to them anyway, because I’m not only an extraordinarily talented writer but I’m also, like, super generous.

When I finally write something, they’ll dedicate a day, no, a month to me and my writing. A statue will be erected in my honor. Then they’ll send my work to space, and aliens will find it, and they’ll also erect a statue in my honor—that’s how relatable my writing will be. It will be literally universal.

Grown men and women will weep in the streets, but also laugh, because this book is every genre and also an entirely new genre, and that new genre will be named after me.

When I write something, it will be so good that it will unblock all the other writers around me, so that no writer in the future will ever have to compulsively binge-watch eight hours of “Below Deck” to drown out the guilt that they feel about not writing, or whatever.

Anyway, the point is, I’m going to be a wildly successful writer, like, any day now.