Debbie Does Drivel

Ah. Uh. Um.

I'm so blocked oh my gosh I'm so stopped up.
Creativity is dried spittle on my chin, a scab on my knee.
There are no ideas washing over my sand.
I have nothing, nothing, NOTHING, if I don't have yooooouuuuuuuuu.
Whitney Houston is more creative than I.

I wrote a newsletter for work. Boss didn't like. I must start again. But can't. Don't got it. Am not sure-fingered anymore. Thought I could write. But people don't think so. Boss people don't think so. Maybe once the thoughts were molten lava, now are black volcanic ash. Obliterated. I don't have it. You guys??? I don't have it.

Too many cliches, common turns of a phrase, too many nouns, commas, thoughts. Too many voices not my own. Doubts creep, can't dos slink. I'm dry, I'm so dry. Was I ever wet? Did I just think I was wet? Was there any moisture? I don't take enough dips in the pool? Twirls in the rain?

Fear. Fear. Fear. If not writer, then...
Then WHAT?
Just a girl?
A girl with no talent?
A girl with no skill other than to melanchol? To obsess? To neurose?

What have I?
What have I become?
My God, what have I become.
Shit! I even had to copy that My God sequence from Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde.
What a great story.
I can't write a story like it.
I can't write!
What now?
Maybe a home-based business as a medical transcriptionist.
Or a consultant to hypochondriacs.

Sorry, Fella

Everyone thinks my baby is a boy.
Everyone.
One man asked us why we dressed our son up in lavender and cut his hair that way.
Another was kinder and asked, "Boy or Girl?" Then: "Oh, I thought he was a girl. I was going to say he was beautiful, but wanted to be sure he was the girl I thought he was first."
Alexa always gets: "Hi little fella!" and "Hey Buddy!" whevever she ambles.
I think the power of suggestion is actually turning her into the boy she looks like.
She talks real low and likes to wrestle.
I wonder if it was all that Indigo Girls I listened to while pregnant.