Shit. I was afraid this might happen. I've lost it; lost the mojo. Lost the will. Lost the drive. Lost the plot. Literally. I can't write! I don't know what comes next! Dunno how they get from the A I need to create to the B in the next chapter that's already written. Poop!
See? I can't even write a decent blog anymore. What do I do now? Give up and join the Stepford Wives that populate my neighborhood? Coz then I'm going to need a makeover; some fake french nails and a shorter haircut that goes all spikey in the back like WhatsHerFace with the 8 kids and husband who likes jailbait. Gonna need baggier capri pants too. Shirts that cover suspiciously large underwear. At least four more kids. A CriCut, whatever the hell that is.
Maybe they'll like me then. Maybe I won't stand awkwardly off to the side at every "neighborhood" event (Read: Ward activity that some big-hearted person invited the gentiles to) smiling like a moron and waiting for someone to talk to me. Maybe they won't suspect that I like my cleavage, that the only recipe I'm trying to perfect is one for a dirty martini, that I really hate Richard Paul Evans, that I think scrapbooking is enough to make me gouge my eyes out.
Ok. Going to go read my whole damn manuscript, again. See if I can crawl back into their heads so they can tell me what they've already done and how they felt about it.
Sigh.
Or maybe I'll just go run some errands...I'm low on gin.