Bring on the pain...

Hit me with the whips and chains. Beat me. Hang me upside down. Something. Anything. I'm tired of writing.

I never thought it would happen that I would get tired of writing, but the very idea makes me feel tired. I'm avoiding it like an old boyfriend marrying my sister who's afraid I'll spill the beans that he said she's the homeliest woman on the face of the earth when he dated me. I'd almost rather talk to a bill collector right now, not that I have any money to give him, but it would be preferable to the mountain of junk that faces me.

I'm tired of writing about body building and exercises and nutrition and food/drug supplements until I am about to go ballistic. I like my old life where I wrote what I wanted instead of what I had to write. So this is the copywriter's life. I wish I'd known and married some rich old geezer with no relatives, one foot on a banana peel and one foot in the grave in a high wind on the side of a mountain. Sex with his wrinkled, toothless almost-corpse would be better. Not even Viagra will help me write this crap.

Okay, so someone point me in the direction of said geezer. I want out. Of course he has to agree to separate residences and I'll agree to conjugal visits, preferably with a blindfold and a cigarette waiting (and I don't smoke). Enough whining.

At least there are one or two bright spots on the horizon. I just finished an excellent book, about which I will write a review tonight, and which should be posted at The Celebrity Cafe by next week. It's a mystery set in good old decadent Cleveland, Ohio and points south and a real page turner. There is a mediocre book with more medical sensibility than Naked Lunch and a bit of an eye opener about the medical profession and who gets to be a doctor. Then, last and least, a funny little self-published book called Chowder: The Server's Field Manual, which was somewhat amusing and opened my eyes about what really goes on with the people who smile when they serve you the soup they just spit in. It even comes with a card game designed to give servers something play instead of your food. However, the game is aimed at making servers happy and customers embarrassed and put-upon. As a one-time waitress, I'm still not sure whether I like that, although some customers definitely deserve the moron treatment.

On top of all this, I got a phone call from my mother, the second in two days. She also called me again a few minutes ago to ask what of my exercise equipment and wicker furnishings I wanted her to sell. (Hey, Mom? Sell anything that isn't nailed down for whatever you can get!) She also asked if I was serious about selling my paintings. Yes and no. I can use the money, but I love those paintings. It took many years and a lot of sacrifice to accumulate my treasures and I can't even hang them here because it would cost too much to have them shipped and I don't think my parents will be making any more cross country trips. They certainly won't fit in my car if I end up having to decamp here either. *sigh* C'est la vie. At least she didn't ask if I wanted to sell my books. She knows better.

The first of two calls tonight was to let me know Mom had found one of my stories--her favorite--about my "vacation" in New Orleans during the last days of the World's Fair. She even read it to me. I haven't seen it since I gave her my last copy after it had been rejected by nearly every magazine in the country. (word of warning: if you ever decide to visit my parents, be prepared to be forced to read said story)

I haven't heard anyone read the story to me although I had read it countless times and I did live the actual events. I was stunned. I'm a much better writer than I knew.

I know. That sounds conceited, but it is true. NOLA came alive again for me and I remembered walking the streets of New Orleans and the French Quarter as if it were yesterday. It's a homeless person's travelogue. I wonder if a publisher would be interested in a travelogue from the homeless point of view? COuld be interesting.

Anyway, I surprise myself that I was ever that good. But not any more. My writing skills are deteriorating as I write this. Soon I will begin to start using keywords endlessly to make my journal come up higher in the search engines, writing pointless, repetitive drivel for money.

Someone save me!