Still, I’m not writing. What is wrong with me? I try, but then nothing comes out. And yes, I’m writing this blog, but it’s not what i mean by “writing.” For me, writing means writing A BOOK. Nothing has ever kept me from writing. Nothing. No One. Ever. Never. Nada, zip zero, zilch. After authoring 22 books, and having about 7 in various stages of completion, it’s not like this is usually an issue for me. So what’s my problem? Was it that train wreck of a last relationship i just came out of? (Escaped from, would be more accurate. My exit strategy was get out as soon as possible and start again, alone. Brilliant, I know). So here I am, in a lovely apartment, better than the one before the doomed relationship, in a fabulous neighborhood which i also love, and I’m even making more money now than before. So again, what’s my problem?
Maybe i need to get laid. But in order to do that, i have to go OUT more often than i am. As my best friend Justi always told me, “If you continue living like that, you’ll only meet a girl if she happens to be a UPS delivery person.” (maybe I could start by ordering a bunch more stuff off the Internet?) So getting laid…That’s an idea. But I’m not much for meaningless sex. Though sometimes meaningless sex can have its benefits. It might inspire me to write again. But then I’ll probably only be able to write about meaningless sex. (Is that a bad thing?)
I keep hoping for that one little thing that will light my creative fire again. Please, dear readers, send matches. (Or a hot UPS girl).