I have not been able to say or write anything right today. I'm hoping this blog comes out different, dang it!
I've been talking and writing emails like a teenager all day.
Email to another writer today: **I know ur going 2 hate my critique. So if u want me 2 help more tell me.**
Whoa...who got the paddle out on my behind recently? (No one who matters.)
Spoke to my daughter's teacher on the phone. I held it together for a semi-adult conversation, but as soon as I got off the phone: "Stupid teacher. A-number-one creeper."
Hubby, who is home sick with the flu and semi-delirious with fever gave me a sharp look.
"YOU used to be a teacher too, Vee. Why are you talking like that?"
For cryin' out loud. It's Wallace Nagell's fault. That fourteen year old loud mouthed "Little Person" is taking over my fifty-one year old body. I'm possessed. Now, why didn't that happen when I was writing about the 8,000 year old brilliant alien scientist king? True, he was a predatory alien who ate humans, but damn...the great stuff I could have been spouting out. How tesseract tunnels work. The calculations necessary for warp drive engines to power galaxy-hopping starships would've made me a wealthy woman with the gratitude of the entire EARTH.
But NO, it's the four-foot-tall fourteen year old who's in the driver's seat and spouting his nonsense.
I sound crazy, don't I? (The other voices in my head say, if I'm crazy, at least the meds will be good.)
Okay, going to listen to "Hot Mess" by Cobra Starship again. That's Wallace's theme song. He's still at the wheel, the little hot mess. The "problem child, runnin' wild" in my head.