Why I may never be a writer

Like so many other people, I am utterly convinced at intervals that there is a great American novel, or maybe a small but well-regarded novella, or, okay, just a Danielle Steele-esque crapfest (but lucrative!) lurking in my brain. I've mostly decided to forego the tax class for this year in favor of spending whatever spare time I muster up trying to write instead. Tonight, I got a wild hair and actually sat down to start a trial chapter of a memoir, just to shake loose some of the rust from my brain and typing fingers (plus I just love the word memoir, totally disguises the fact that all I can think of to write about is my own life, as I'm seriously lacking in imagination). I got literally three sentences down in half an hour, not because of brain freeze or finger cramp or bad lighting but because my children are numerous and wretched.

I recently read a book of advice about becoming a published author, and the venues covered ranged from novels to greeting cards. Perhaps I've been too ambitious in my imagination, and I should restrict myself to the one-liner market. Like I could ever restrain my verbose self to one line.