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It's been eons since I've written... anything. Truthfully, I blame it on the Wellbutrin.

Anti-depressants are for me like the plastic preservative stuff they used to make spider encased jewelry charms back in the '70's... sometimes little flowers or bees or other bugs, perfectly petrified in plastic... I remember one of the old Christmas cartoons featuring a similar concept - a Christmas villan who had stolen all the Christmas toys and was using his wicked invention to seal each toy in it's own impenetrable see-thru box so that the toy would be forever preserved and would never wear out nor break. Somehow he missed the whole point that the children wanted to touch the toys, feel them, play with them, and love them.

Yeah, there's my soul in all it's neatly packaged plastified, sparkling glory... but I can't feel a fucking thing.


Nearly a month and a half ago now, my son was born - an incredibly beautiful baby if I do say so myself. One would think that as a writer, I would have lots to write about... and I do, somewhere, I think? Certainly I have lots of thoughts and feelings, such as the dread and the agony of returning to work and the utter demise should I not. Or how the world around me disintegrates and I completely melt inside each time my little man looks into my eyes and smiles his heavenly baby smile and how I am so sick of wiping asses and trying to create a relationship with my 8 year old special needs child that I just wanna lay down and give up at times. --But I can't think of a single thing that I have an interest in expressing nor would I know how to begin...

And yet am absolutely terrified of who I would be without the Wellbutrin.

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I did try very hard to tell the whole truth without violating my literary instincts. [�] One can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a window pane.
--George Orwell, "Why I Write"