Oh, where? Oh, wherefore art thou?

My writing muse must have left the premises in the past two weeks; I can't find her. I've been trying to get her on the phone, lure her out of the crevices in my mind, sniff her out in the usual inspiration haunts or at least find an overlooked message promising a quick return from vacation. But she's gone. She's not there to give me a kick in the pants in the evening when my mind goes numb watching bubble gum television. There are no more valid excuse notes reading, Hillary can't clean, cook or declutter right now, because she needs to write. There are no more Aha! moments when I'm ruminating while trying to get my little son to take a nap so that I can write, dammit.

Maybe she decided I was too risky an investment when I went through that depression after the accident. Maybe she decided to leave the day of the accident, all shook up, and she only stuck around to let me have a couple good posts out of pity before sneaking off, giving me a farewell slap on the fractured ribs as I slept, and floating away to some other writer who can't possibly need her as badly as I do.

I've tried giving myself a good shake down, but my thoughts are lying about like miscellanea from trouser pockets - Hurricane Sandy, heroes, pumpkin-chocolate, Big Bird, plastic utensils - and they just don't make sense. They won't form an orderly line, and I'm left calling, "Next!" interminably.

I'm a lonely writer. I need my muse. If you happen to see one out somewhere, in some Starbucks or big city park, and she looks like she might be mine or she might be bored, please pass along this message for me:

Help! Come back quick! What have you done!? - Sincerely, Hillary

Until I can coax her back you might enjoy:

Stroller Pains

Hint of Awful

The Longest Week of My Life (guest post by Dad)

Imagine St. Nick (Warning: major spoiler!)

Warning: This Is A Dream Blog

We were on a skinny rural road, and my husband was speeding. The reason for our haste were the twisters in the plain to our right. They were very slender, graceful tornadoes but quite fast. As I watched them cycle across the field in the grey and the rain, I realized there must be a dozen or more of them. I tensed; I was bracing for the impact because, like an advancing phalanx sent to wage battle, they were all coming toward the road with precision. I knew they were watery, wispy things; I could see straight through them. Nevertheless, despite their beauty the idea that they would soon impact the van thrilled me with fear.

We managed to reach our destination without one cyclone passing through us and dissipating like smoke. There we were at long last at a broken down vacation rental in the woods. One of its outstanding amenities was a pool turned green. I gazed on it with disgust. My man was already letting all our little ones splash around in the muck of it.

"How could you?" I asked, absolutely revolted. He shrugged, so unlike him not to care about the filth.

I looked to my right at the adjoining hot tub. It was full of frothy mud, and as I watched it began to bubble and gurgle vigorously until huge kernels of white popcorn burst out of it, into the sky, and dropped about the shady area with grace. Well, there you go, I thought. I guess this place in not all bad.



You were warned.