The Breakup

"Why aren't you working?"

"What do you mean? It's my day off?"

"Working on your writing."

"Oh. I don't feel like it."

"You don't feel like it."

"Um. No. I. . . ."

CRACK!

"Ow! What the hell?!?"
"You still don't feel like writing?"

"What the hell, Amnesia? Why did you . . ."

CRACK!

"Shit! Will you stop it already! What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I'm inspiring you."

"You're hitting me with a whip! That's not inspirational, that just hurts!"

"Then I'm using negative stimuli to motivate your lazy ass! Now write something!"

"No!"

"Do not make me pull out the cat-o-nine tails!"

"Don't fuck with me, Amnesia! I'm serious!"

"Why? What can you do?"

"I can fucking give up, is what I can do! And then what happens to your lazy ass? Huh? How many jobs have you blown anyway?"

"Hey! We're not here to talk about my career prospects, we're talking about yours!"

"Bullshit! And you've got a lot of nerve criticizing me for being lazy when it comes to the writing! How the hell am I supposed to create when your miserable excuse for an ass isn't here? Huh? Answer that! Hell! I should file a formal complaint!"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?  Every time I sit down to write something all I wind up doing is staring at the goddamn page! Why? Because your ass is nowhere around!"

"Hey! I've got other clients, you know!"

"Yeah? Do I give a good fuck? You're supposed to be here for me when I need you! To inspire! Instead, you show up once in a goddamn blue moon, carrying a fucking whip and pissed off as . . ."

CRACK!

"Shit!"

"Don't threaten me, you little. . . ."

"That's it! You're fired! I'm going to complain! I'm going to get your sorry ass de-Mused! I am done with you! Done!"

"You. . . ."

"No! No more threats! No more whip! No more of you showing up at three in the goddamn morning or in the middle of my day job when I can't fucking write! You understand! We're done! Done, I say!"

" . . . ."

"What? Are you actually speechless? Where's the snappy comeback, Amnesia? Huh?"
"I don't have one."

"Well, d'uh!"

"You're right. I am a terrible Muse. I can't keep to a schedule to save my job. I am petty and fickle and, and . . . sob!"

"Oh crap. Don't cry."

"I can't help it! And you're not the boss of me so I'll cry if I want to!"

"Look, don't cry. Okay? Just stop."

"Why? A girl can cry if she wants to! And what do you care? We're done, right? I'm a terrible Muse! You said it yourself!"

"Look, you're not a terrible Muse. When you're on, you're on. We're just not compatible any more. That's all."

"Maybe."

"There's no maybe about it.  We've just drifted apart.  We don't click any more. I mean, you were great when I was writing the first book and fucking brilliant with the second one, but. . . ."

"Yeah, well, you were easy to work with back then.  You didn't have so many irons in the fire."

"Yeah."

"So, I guess this is it? We're breaking up?"

"I think it's for the best, Ana."

"Will you look for another Muse?"

"Maybe. I think I'll wait for things to calm down a little before I make that decision."

"Yeah, that'd probably be the smart thing."

"Yeah."

"Well, I guess I should go."

"Yeah. I guess."

"I'll see you around."

"Sure. And, Amnesia?"

"Yeah?"

"The whip belongs to me."

"Oh. Right. I forgot."

"Uh-huh."

"Bye."

"Goodbye."

Tumbleweeding

Good afternoon, gentle readers, and happy St. Patrick's Day!
It's not quite 6:00 P.M. here and the day has been wet and dreary.  As I lay here, balancing this keyboard on my upraised knees, typing perpendicularly, I'm glad to be indoors.  The cold isn't so bad, but the rain and the wind make it feel so much worse.
It's at times like these that I reconsider my fantasy of buying a house on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The view would be fantastic, but the weather would be awful.
My own home is, currently, less than a fantasy.  I moved into my new place last October and have spent the last five months or so making improvements to the place.  Some, like the new heat system, were essential. Others (having the popcorn ceilings scraped) were more about aesthetics.
The entire experience has drained my bank accounts, tested my patience and generally been a pain in the ass.  Still, I can't complain about the end product.  The place does look better.
So it is somewhat ironic that, just as I'm reaching the conclusion of this project, that I have an interview for a job in another part of the country.
The Fates, it seems, have a sense of humor after all.
I honestly don't know if I'll get the job.  I suspect the interviews they are doing are merely for show. In my experience, in circumstances like this, the hiring agency already has someone lined up for the position and all of this is just a show for the Human Resources department.
After all, they must be seen to be going through the motions. True?
Because of that, I don't really expect to get this job.  If I do, that will be interesting. It would necessitate a move across the country to New Mexico.  I would have to put my place on the market for a quick sale. I would be starting over again from scratch.
Gentle readers, forgive my honesty here, but sometimes I think I'm too old and too fat to constantly be starting over again.  It all feels a bit ridiculous to me that, at this stage in my life, I'm not really established.  I don't really feel like I've set down roots anywhere.  Instead, I feel like I'm tumbleweeding through existence, blown hither and yon by the winds of chance.
Not that that's a bad thing. I think I'm lucky and I usually land on my feet. I've certainly accumulated some interesting experiences.
And isn't that what life is all supposed to be about? Experience?
So, what next?
I have no idea.
But I think it'll be interesting.

The Evil Page

I sit down at the computer, fingers poised over the keyboard and nothing happens.  The words do not flow.  Creativity is absent. All there is, is the white page. 
The evil white page.
It stares back at me and I am reminded of that saying, 'When you stare into the abyss, the abyss also stares into you!'
What, I wonder, does the blank page think of me? Is it laughing at me? Or is it as frustrated as I am? Perhaps it wants to be as filled with words as badly as I want to fill it.  Perhaps writer's block is as problematic for the blank page as it is for the writer?
Or perhaps the page is just evil.
EVIL.
It certainly feels that way sometimes.  As if I'm facing a metaphorical version of Snidely Whiplash, grinning and twirling his mustache in all its glory.
Actually, now that I think of it, picturing the page as something like that gives me a strong impulse to write. I just imagine each of the letters as a resounding blow on that creep's face.
It is oddly satisfying.

I bet George Lucas never had this problem....

How do you commemorate someone who you never met?
That’s a tough enough question on its own, dear readers, but add in the fact that the memorial in question is set in an alien civilization and it adds a whole new dimension to the problem.
And it is a problem.
I’m stuck, trying to come up with an alien memorial ceremony, for the book I’m working on.
But, hey! At least I’m writing. Right? Right!
And, best of all, the structure of this story has suddenly crystallized for me.  But I am blocked by the whole memorial question. Which has sent me scampering across the Internet, doing research on funeral ceremonies and memorials.
I’ve gotten a couple of ideas for the memorial, but nothing I really like. As for the funeral thing? Heh. I’m not even going near that, not right now.
Because killing everyone in this story would be far too tempting.

The Trevor Project

Good morning, gentle readers.

Sorry for going MIA last week, but things were a little nuts here at Casa de George.  Basically, I'm having work done on the place, and it's reached the stage where the workmen are banging the hell out of things, making it difficult to think, let alone write.

As I sprawl on the floor here, laptop resting on my upraised legs, a pair of beefy guys are tearing the hell out of my master bathroom.  Downstairs, I've got other guys working on my kitchen and a painter eying the ceiling and trying to decide where to start today.

So, as you can probably imagine, this is not the most conducive environment for writing. Or blogging. Which I'm starting to think are two very different things.

But I'll go into that later.

Today, I'm not going to talk about writing. Today, I'm going to use this space to promote a worthy cause.

Some of you may be familiar with YouTube sensation, Tyler Oakley.  Others among you may have heard of the Trevor Project, a 1-800 line for LGBTQ youth providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services.

It's a worthy cause and for the last few weeks Tyler Oakley has been using his celebrity status - He has millions of followers on YouTube and Twitter - to fund raise for the Trevor Project.  As of this morning, Oakley and his followers have raised almost $250,000 for the charity.  Most of the money has been acquired through microdonations of $10 with a few people donating more.

Numerous studies have shown that lesbian, gay, and bisexual youth have a higher rate of suicide attempts than do heterosexual youth. The Suicide Prevention Resource Center estimated that between 30 and 40% of LGBT youth, depending on age and sex groups, have attempted suicide.  A U.S. government study, titled Report of the Secretary's Task Force on Youth Suicide, published in 1989, found that LGBT youth are four times more likely to attempt suicide than other young people.

A $10 donation may not sound like much, but it could help save someones life. 

If you'd like to learn more about The Trevor Project and donate to them, you can check out their website at www.thetrevorproject.org.

You can also donate through Prizeo, and win a chance to hang out in Los Angeles with Tyler Oakley himself, via http://www.prizeo.com/prizes/tyler-oakley/an-LA-date?utm_content=tyler&utm_campaign=tyler .