So I went to my normal spot in the library, third floor tables, under the sky light, right in between the homeless man who talks to himself and the homeless man whose odor speaks for him.
But no magic happened. I walked home, on my normal route by the river, under the trees. I still didn’t feel better so I did what every author who has writer’s block does on occasion, I rolled around on the floor clutching my netbook to my chest crying “Oprah will never love meeeeeeeee!”
And then I covered my face in make up because my face can look good, even if my words can’t. But I still didn’t feel better.
So I put on all the pieces of clothing that make me happy; my giant Kermit the Frog stocking socks, my skirt which looks like someone took multiple swipes at it with pink, purple and black paint, my navy blue t shirt with the desert on it which is actually hand painted. Then I topped the whole bizarre overly made up, yet clashing look off with my circus coat. I added a bright blue scarf with a crazy print for good measure.
Then I walked down our street looking like a cross between a carnival and a cartoon. The frat boys ignored me. The metallers next door turned their pierced heads and looked the other way. Even the druggies sitting out on their porch, who normally give a whistle when I pass, paid me no mind.
The wind had gone out of my sails. Not even the colourful racket the circus coat was making against the green grass could cheer me up. So I asked Roscoe to take a photo of me. This is what my writer’s angst looks like.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don’t mind when I dress like a three year old who has been allowed to pick out their own clothes to cheer myself up.