I'm stopping at two. I swear.
Let me state, for the record, that I have no intention of becoming one of those women with 28 tattoos and enough piercings to set off an airport metal detector.
Not that I don't love a good TSA strip search, but the look just isn't me.
If you're a regular reader, you know I got my first tattoo back in April, and you know I lifted my shirt to show it to you here.
That post explains the significance of my chosen ink, and I'm happy about when and where I got it.
But technically, it's not the first tattoo I ever tried to get. Back when I was a 19-year-old college student, I was certain I'd someday make my living as a writer. I was right about that, though clearly there's a fuzzy path between "serious journalist" and "author of funny smut." No matter, a writer should have a tattoo symbolizing one's writerly ambitions, and my 19-year-old self settled on the quill.
Keep in mind, this was in the era before internet was readily available, so I pored through the clip-art books in the student newspaper office where I worked. I printed my favorites and saved them to floppy disc (remember those?!).
And then...well, I didn't get around to doing it. Several times over the course of the following 18 years, I meandered into tattoo shops and inquired about placement and pricing. Once in Venezuela and once in Eugene, Oregon, I showed up at a tattoo parlor with my mind made up to get the ink RIGHT THEN....only to discover the shop was closed.
I took that as a sign, and eventually gave up.
But I've recently been feeling a renewed vigor both for the tattoo idea, and for my own identity as a writer. And so the time seemed right to do this:
No, the initials don't belong to my gentleman friend, nor are they an abbreviation for the punchline of my favorite dirty joke. They're my parents' initials (yes, my mom and dad have identical initials) and they're intended as a tribute to the people who deserve credit (or blame?) for making me the person and the writer I turned out to be.
By sheer luck, my appointment landed on my mother's birthday, so I got to honor her big day by desecrating my virgin flesh with her initials.
Feel free to insert your own "virgin" joke here.
I'm utterly delighted with the new ink. I can also tell you without reservation that a tattoo on a nice, squishy, fleshy body part like this is a whole lot less painful than one on a bony, thin-skinned ribcage.
So there you have it. My new tattoo, and a tangible badge of honor that I am a writer.
Wait, does this mean I have to toss my laptop and start crafting manuscripts with quill and ink?
Not that I don't love a good TSA strip search, but the look just isn't me.
If you're a regular reader, you know I got my first tattoo back in April, and you know I lifted my shirt to show it to you here.
That post explains the significance of my chosen ink, and I'm happy about when and where I got it.
But technically, it's not the first tattoo I ever tried to get. Back when I was a 19-year-old college student, I was certain I'd someday make my living as a writer. I was right about that, though clearly there's a fuzzy path between "serious journalist" and "author of funny smut." No matter, a writer should have a tattoo symbolizing one's writerly ambitions, and my 19-year-old self settled on the quill.
Keep in mind, this was in the era before internet was readily available, so I pored through the clip-art books in the student newspaper office where I worked. I printed my favorites and saved them to floppy disc (remember those?!).
And then...well, I didn't get around to doing it. Several times over the course of the following 18 years, I meandered into tattoo shops and inquired about placement and pricing. Once in Venezuela and once in Eugene, Oregon, I showed up at a tattoo parlor with my mind made up to get the ink RIGHT THEN....only to discover the shop was closed.
I took that as a sign, and eventually gave up.
But I've recently been feeling a renewed vigor both for the tattoo idea, and for my own identity as a writer. And so the time seemed right to do this:
No, the initials don't belong to my gentleman friend, nor are they an abbreviation for the punchline of my favorite dirty joke. They're my parents' initials (yes, my mom and dad have identical initials) and they're intended as a tribute to the people who deserve credit (or blame?) for making me the person and the writer I turned out to be.
By sheer luck, my appointment landed on my mother's birthday, so I got to honor her big day by desecrating my virgin flesh with her initials.
Feel free to insert your own "virgin" joke here.
I'm utterly delighted with the new ink. I can also tell you without reservation that a tattoo on a nice, squishy, fleshy body part like this is a whole lot less painful than one on a bony, thin-skinned ribcage.
So there you have it. My new tattoo, and a tangible badge of honor that I am a writer.
Wait, does this mean I have to toss my laptop and start crafting manuscripts with quill and ink?
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