Debbie Does Drivel

From The Pit of Self-Despair: A Dirge

My The Artist's Way (Julia Cameron) directs aspiring creatives to make dates with oneself to stimulate the creative flow. That way, observations gained from museum trips, gallery openings, and neighborhood walks feed the subconscious, trip the brain's light fantastic, and spur fresh, interesting images for your art.

Despite the fact that I've stagnated with my book (do the enemies try to take over the world? turn my protagonist's mother against her? just be evil in general? what's the point? what's the deux ex machina?), I've not taken Julia's advice. Instead, I sit, inside my darkening living room, watching back-to-back Story spin-offs on TLC (Wedding Story, Makeover Story, Baby Story, Dating Story), rooting out the biggest shortcake chunks in my bowl of ice cream, and alternating which foot I hang over the edge of the couch.

I was supposed to have an interview this morning, which I tirelessly prepared for yesterday afternoon, but as I stepped out of the shower, fresh from my affirmations, Kevin informed me the interview had been canceled.
So, in a robust "fuck it all, then" approach, I embraced laid-off-hood with juicy abandon. Indeed, I now shun anything productive, including finishing my novel.

The one, I say The One, productive thing I've done all day is create a new crockpot recipe, which now bubbles on my countertop.

I know me. This is going to get worse. Once I give myself to a state of mind, be it healthy or no, I hand myself over to it completely. I'm tired of trying so hard to find a job. I'm sick of getting my hopes up; cultivating self-disdain as I pander my resume to everyone I know. I need to experience this "I give up" attitude completely, sitting in its corners, smelling its dust, fingering every edge, as it drops to oblivion. I never know when it runs its course. It just does one day. But for now: hello from the abyss.