Why I hate Neil Gaiman

Where's the fun in writing an unending list of reasons for hating Neil Gaiman? Well, it's fun for me, so I expel the demons that lurk in the dimmed corners of my heart. Sitting at the place that pays for my existence, allowed only to wait for my next task, I decided to see if Neil Fucking Gaiman had written anything new. Imagine me painted not surprised when I found that he has two books coming out this year. Then, I find myself rummaging around amazon, looking at a ton of books that I hadn't read, which he authored. I will begin with hating his prolific writing skills. Digging through the bibliography of Neil Gaiman is a exploration in excitement, adventure and extreme imagination. Everything sounds like an interesting read. The concepts are original. From graphic novels to children's literature, there is no limit to what he writes about and the fact is, I don't have that kind of money. I totaled up nearly $300 worth of reading in about seven minutes. This is AFTER I had touted myself as somewhat of a Neil Gaiman go-to fan. Clearly I am living in a what-the-hell-do-I-know world. Now, as a writer -or, in the shadow of the unending list of Gaiman's work, I am a woman who has written a couple of novels - I get depressed. His ideas are so simple and elegant that I find myself bemoaning my lack of innovation while grimacing at my flaring hatred for this man... this author... I am not throwing a pity-party here. Only, I think that it is unfair that Gaiman gets to have the mega-imagination. He is taking more than his share from the universal pool of great ideas. If he filches all the original concepts and characters, what is left for the rest of us? As a reader, I devour his stories with a heroic reverence, blathering to anyone who will listen about his greatness. As an author, I loathe him for illuminating -with stunning effect- how mediocre my writing then appears to me. So, thank you Neil Fucking Gaiman. Thank you for the hours of entertainment, the endless guilty pleasure I am now handing down to my small son, by reading your books. Thank you for building a castle in the stars. Stars that live so far out in space that nobody can possibly reach their stunning distances. I can't even see the damn star, but I know it's amazing. I know that it shines through the darkness. I know that there will someday be some punk kid that can make it there- and show you up. I hope I'm there to witness it.

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Stretch

I watch him stretch his little fingers, barely able to touch the object of his attention. With a surprising tenacity, he continues to try, going back, again and again, until he gets it. I think to myself, why don't I have that kind of attention, that kind of dedication to my writing?
He is an epic reminder to go into the world with my blinders down. To approach every situation with fascination.

And then he sits in front of me and grumps to screaming because I am sitting here writing and not giving him his toys. Sorry little guy, if I have to reach, so do you.

Does that make me a bad mom? A bad mom AND a bad writer? Or a bad mom and a lazy writer? Or a lazy mom and a currently uninspired writer? Or a boring mom and a writer needing to move from the darkened den and back to her office (which she now shares with the baby -- mom office/baby room -- city living people).

Okay, little guy, your sad song is being heard. Time for a change in diaper and perhaps a nap... a nap for us both. Maybe then, we'll both have the sunshine we need to face the rest of the day.

first blog in waaaaaayyyy tooo looooonnnnggg....
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and we're back

Once upon a time a prolific amount of jazzy stuff spilled from my brain with an effortlessness that anyone would envy. Was it Pulitzer material? Hells no, but it wasn't total crap either. What it was... practice. At least I was writing. I could stand on my soapbox and bellow to my brother that his incredible gift with words was being wasted on procrastination. After all, you can't call yourself a writer if you don't write, right?
Then, I peed on a stick.
Then, I didn't write because I spent more time than I care to admit surfing the internet about what it is to be pregnant, what it will be to be a mom and what I should buy in preparation. I realized two things: one- my brain's capacity to multitask diminished 10 fold, so "baby" was all that computed. two- I am evil with the pregnancy hormones (a story for another monday). Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought that I would have plenty of time once the baby comes. After all, the thing babies do most is sleep, right?
Er... We will take a momentary pause for all the parents to collectively laugh at me right now.
Okay.
Needless to say, it's been almost six months since the beast was born and I have yet to write so much as a few words here and there... Mostly in brief emails sent to family. My soapbox is in storage and hidden behind the cardboard boxes we saved for the carseat, the stroller, the crib, the exersaucer, the playpen and my sanity.
Leaves a gal wondering if her inspiration is sagging as much as her boobs.

We'll see, I suppose.

NOT eXpecially people!!! NO X! NO X! it's eSpecially... this is a freaking virus of stupidity... ah, hell. why am I not sooprized?

ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?????