Did Shakespeare scrub toilets? Was Byron doing tax returns? Were any of the Bronte sisters expected to wield a pooper-scooper? I think not.
We were not meant for the mundane, the work-a-day life. We are Writers!
This magical journey of self-discovery that we call blogging has taught me so much about myself. I cannot be tied down by the concerns of lesser mortals. No offense to all of you. I must be free to capture the essence of the creative ooze.
I’ve adopted a new look that expresses my free-spirit persona. Now, all I wear are floaty skirts, lots of shawls and scarves, bangles, beads and a wide-brimmed hat. I carry a long, ivory cigarette holder. Tres elegante methinks – kind of a Truman Capote in drag vibe.
It has usually fallen to me to clean our cat, Beeby’s, litter box. No more. Bending over a loaded litter box with all that trailing fringe is just asking for trouble.
My husband, Guillaume (much more interesting than “Bill”, don’t you think?), said today he’s out of clean underwear. I believe he was implying that I, MOI!, should attend to the matter. Shirley you jest!
And yes, I know it’s “surely”. That was an homage (pronounced with a Frenchie-Pierre accent, no “H”) to the late, great Leslie Nielsen.
The creative burden is exhausting. Sometimes I am forced to recline gracefully on the divan for hours to recoup my strength. Until Guillaume kicks me out because he wants to stretch out with a cold one to watch Jackass reruns, the Visigoth.
Dishes piling up in the sink, bills piling up on the counter – what care I of these? When the Muse is upon me, I am lost to the world.
When not actually writing, I feel it is my duty to visit the nouveau Freshly Pressed, to encourage these budding talents. That takes time and energy, but I do not begrudge it. I am eager to share what I have gleaned, toiling in the fields of literature (note to self: good stuff there. Re-use for future blog post.)
Lately, Guillaume has been going on and on about a “paying job” and “can’t be a real writer without any readers” and such all. I cannot clutter my mind with these bourgeois considerations. I am an Artiste.
Now, dear readers, I have need of sustenance. Tea time! Perhaps some cakes, a few cucumber sandwiches – remember I like them with the crusts cut off, Guillaume.
Guillaume? Mon Coeur?
Hey, Bill…where’d everybody go?