As I have mentioned, I usually suffer from Writer’s Balk, not Writer’s Block, meaning that I usually know what I want to write about, and usually have a project or three going, but can’t get moving.
It is rare that I can’t find something to I feel needs my personal brand of snark and emotion (World’s worst body splash, created by the maker’s of Love’s Baby soft, especially for teens.)
There is plenty going on around me. I just spent 244 dollars to get the shower in the front bathroom fixed so Big Kid doesn’t have to bathe on the lawn (Although the destroyed pool in the backyard could be converted into a cold, extremely cold mud bath, but then he would have to be hosed off on the lawn.)
I could write a running commentary on the dearth of destruction surrounding me, but really it’s too depressing and I can’t blaze out on Klonopin; I have things to do. My Amanda Friend, AOG, and Tall Boy are coming over to help organize things. I am going to try not to super stress about it.
I tried, and it sort of worked. I didn’t super stress, and things got done. I know I needed to have someone who wasn’t attached to the things and the level of stagnation that exists in various spots in my house. My office is now clean, and the only thing I really stressed about and continue to stress about is the pool. Every six minutes (I’m not kidding) I went outside and restarted the pool pump, because for some reason I don’t want to start my own strain of the West Nile virus in the back yard.
And then there’s the right now: I’m sitting in my really clean office listing to the Indigo Girls while scanning an article about TV reunion shows. Like how the cast of Gilligan’s Island got rescued and hated it. The only thing that makes me think of is how I was married for five years longer than the castaways were stranded.
I totally did not mean for that to be a metaphor or anything. (My Freudian slip is NOT showing!)
I think it best that I not let my casual observations inspire me. Except for characters. I have no idea where they come from. The just appear. Any other time I let the mood grab me, I write “Gate” instead if “Cat” Which of course makes me wonder if my cat, Samantha, is secretly a portkey into another dimension. That would explains why she jumps and stares at shadows and is suspicious of everyone. Can you imagine? You are just hanging around living your catly life and someone scoops you up and suddenly they and you are somewhere else. HMMM Samantha does hate being picked up and it would explain how that obscene t-shirt got into my office. Along with the other random crap that populates my house causing me to need a while team of detached personages to help my tidy-up.
And we’re back.