My creativity has been up on the ledge lately dangling her feet. She feels alone and inept, underappreciated and forlorn, yet the well isn’t dry.
It still seems damp, way at the bottom.
I sit at my desk most days attempting to write. It’s been a long time since I’ve published, but like any triumph, it fades in the sun.
I’m not a particularly great self-promoter. Actually I’m terrible at it.
If I discovered the cure for cancer, you’d never hear it from me.
I’ve gone over reasons for this many times, but preening makes me feel foolish and awkward, yet find myself envious of others who have the knack.
A man I used to date, for a second, came back into my life. When I told him I had a blog, he said really? How fun. Then sent me his own book without even asking.
See, he has the knack.
Why can’t I ever take a bow? Half the people I know have no bows to take, yet take them anyway, convincing the masses through social media how outstanding they are.
I sit and scratch my head.
Could be that war wound from my mother who told me I was stupid.
This alone keeps my shrink in walkin’ around money.
With the exception of Twitter, I took myself off social media because of the creeps that came out of the woodwork. It scared me to be quite honest. I don’t like being pursued, especially by those who have hurt me in the past.
Hey, Suzana, memba me…we had sex in the back’a my Pontiac. Actually I don’t, except now I see my legs hanging out a window.
There’s a woman, a former follower, who had written the meanest comment over her loyalty to Donald Trump, attacking me with her Christian self-righteousness. I was kind by not retaliating, but then she came back, begging for forgiveness like an abusive lover. She even looked up my address and sent me a card. How inappropriate, and rest my case on the invasion of privacy.
She seems to have finally gone, at least I hope so.
So I’m here at my desk, wooing my muse who must be out of town.
If you see her, would you give her my best?
Maybe I’m just not that good of a writer.
Maybe that’s the real issue here.
I do rant over things the world doesn’t seem to care about…navy blazers and books, fits of kindness, American History, and deli men and dogs who know your name.
Therefore, what I’ve decided to tell my censor when he says…who do you think you are Susannah?
I’m just a plain, ordinary girl who loves to write.
I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves.
My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks.