Again with the Writer's Block

Yes. Writer's block. One writer. One block. And it's mine. And you can't have it. Unless I decide to give it to you. Which I suppose, technically, I could. But then, what would I have? Because I sure as hockey sticks don't have an idea about what to write.

(But I may, may, I say, know for whom I will vote!)

Decisions are being made over here. Bear and I just finished watching the Nevada debate, with civic attention and deliberation, and only a wee bit of heckling. (Oh, they couldn't hear it. Stop your reproachin'.)

And you know, after watching several hours of candidates and pundits say this and evade that, I'm struck by the similarities between this debate and my early parenting strategies:

• Don't want us to play with an issue? Distract with another shiny issue. And hope no one notices that they've been shelved.
  
• Offer choices, but limit options to things you really like to do or make you look good. ("Charmed or Buffy? No. Well, we don't have to watch TV. I just thought you'd like to watch TV." "Absolutely no combat troops in Iraq. No combat troops. In Iraq. Well, obviously we would position troops in Kuwait.")
  
• He who shouts loudest is desperate and, you know, really, really loud. Which is sometimes all you really need.
  

It Has Been a Long Time, My People

I've been struggling with trying to find something to say. And it's not about being "worthy of blogging about"--because as you'll remember from past posts, I don't really discriminate. All topics are welcome. Even those there crappy ones.

I've just felt kind of empty of late. (Oh no, you say, here it comes. "What" that might be, you can't pinpoint, but your finger is on your mouse/trackball/trackpad and you are prepared to bounce if you need to.) No, not that kind of loss--well, yes that kind of loss, but that's another post. I've felt at a loss of words, in a quite literal way.

So what do you do? I have no idea. What I do is read. No words coming out? Got to get the words coming in. So I read the Red Tent. I read The Runaways. And I have actually started to make a dent in that large pile of New Yorkers whose collective weight threatens to break my coffee table. And I've kept my mouth shut, lest some of them good words find a way out.

(Oops. Well, at least the good ones are safe.)

Store. Horde. Peruse. Muse.

Like a literary squirrel.