I have to write tonight. Park my ass in a chair. Do it. Write, Bitch!

I'm kidding. Not about having to write, but about this militaristic approach. It would send me to Facebook, Yogurtland, Nordstrom's (roughly, in that order) faster than I could type "procrastination."

I think it might work for dudes.

In "The War of Art," Steven Pressfield writes:

“The artist must be like that Marine. He has to know how to be miserable. He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell.” (68)

I beg to differ.

Not that I don't find this attitude kind of hot in a Hemingway, alpha male, Daniel Craig kind of way. But dude's do things that don't occur to me...

Sure, you can approach the muse like a warrior. But a warrior is trained to kill. Why would you want to inflict violence on the Muse(s)? I prefer to give them space, let them appraoch me with ease and grace, like a butterfly. I don't want to scare them off, or make them think I'm trying to possess them, put them in a cage, make them sing for me. They know that can never happen. But first I have to chill out, get super cell-phone free, stop thinking about shoes, the user experience chaos of Facebook, that crack in my ceiling, and give them space, let them know I'm surrendering control.

Because without them (I think there's a posse) I will turn the creative dream into road kill.

Just for today, I respect the Muse(s).

I'm working with some very awesome people on my feature screenplay, "Stella's Search for Sanity," and having to share my creative "process" (random, disjointed ideas that I toss into a pot and call a "screenplay"). It's truly embarrassing to share the inside of my brain with another person. It's like going inside the possessed room in the movie "Poltergeist," the one with all the flying objects that occasionally came to the forefront. Am I saying that my brain is possessed? That would be more comforting.

Just for today, I can work with other people.

Possible new title for my book. Not sure...too subtle?

I'm not sure it matters. Unless my book includes a step-by-step analysis about how to find a husband, it won't see the light of a printed press. Every book about partner dancing (that I can find) somehow has to do with finding your husband, boyfriend, boytoy, love of your life. If not in the dancing community, than as a byproduct of opening your chakras and unleashing your uber-girly docile Goddess (but not the angry kind) by virtue of following a man...(puke).

Am I the only one who discovered other things by dancing? Like, how to scowl and be a bi-otch, so that guys I don't want as partners wouldn't ask me to dance. Or, how to expunge my case of Nice Girl-itis so that guys I didn't want to talk to wouldn't bother me with boring come on lines. Ok, so these may not be husband landing sk-eeels. But still...being a Bad Girl (not that kind....ok, maybe sometimes). Just admit it, Bitches. (It's my goal to add this word - "Bitches"- to every blog post).

Ok, so you got a husband, but now where do you go when you wanna get all Serena Williams on someone? (Girl is Bad. Ass.)

Just for today, I can think up new book titles.

I'm supposed to be "writing" an hour a day (I don't know why I put the word in quotes). So far, I've done some yoga poses, washed a few loads, listened to a podcast, obsessed about my thighs, and posted something wanna-be profound on a blog.

Then I wrote a sentence. Awesome.

Just for today, I'm committed to my work.

My Norah Jones Pandora station sounded like a good idea until the somber ratio of songs got too high. I'm sure I'd find Nora very soulful and charming in person, but she sounds like she's perpetually curled up in a fluffy blanket on a rainy sunday contemplating her ex-boyfriend who left her for a music tour. And while she can't really blame him, she misses his tender touch...even though deep down she knows he's banging the manager's daughter between gigs. (I'm sorry, I just couldn't put that one to rest). Get some sass, girl! You're not 12 anymore! Ok, so maybe being fiery feminist is totally dated (maybe?), but I still hearken (yearn?) for Alanis Morisette circa "You Oughta Know." And I reference her partly because yes, I'm way old, but mostly because, sadly, I can't think of any good Bitches out there (and I use that word in the most awesome way) who really speak for all women who express unabashed annoyance at the ever-growing douchbag quota...

Seriously, I'm kind of embarrassed for female artists who get all mopey for love. Yes, I'm jaded.

Thank God for my "The Lion King" and "Pretty In Pink" stations.

Just for today, I can listen to Pandora.

It's happening. I'm becoming that lady. The one standing between a bunch of 20-year-olds, or rather tripping over them to get to the mini-skirt and halter, or any number of age-inappropriate items...the one who can't answer one simple question...where do women my age shop? Who are women my age? All the ladies I know in their 30's (technically, I'm still in my 30's), 40's or even 50's are aging Forever 21 style...I just can't get into the drape-y muted tones, scarves, and scary giant necklaces. But if I ever walk into Talbot's...please shoot ,me in the head.

Just for today, I can dress age inappropriate.

I recently saw a celebrated Spiritual Guru in Los Angeles speak on the topic of forgiveness. Throughout her talk, I couldn't help but wonder how much of the donations to the service would go towards her Botox treatments. I know there isn't a law that says a Spiritual Guru needs to look like a bald eunuch whose been fasting for three months, but it's comforting to have the General in the trenches with you (not that I've ever been in trench warfare, or fasted, but I have been practicing aging for a few years) So when a 60-year-old woman who looks 35 talks about letting go without moving a brow muscle, I don't think it's unreasonable to agree with the idea that we teach what we need to learn.

I haven't done any Botox (yet), so maybe my cavalier attitude at 39 is bout to change (bring that shit one!). However, I do have some thoughts on forgiveness. I think in order to forgive someone who has hurt you, one (me) must first remove oneself from the relationship/situation. Forgiving while being bludgeoned may have worked for Christ, but shoot, his dad is God! It's like Meadow Soprano getting dumped by her boyfriend, she might be hurting but he's going to hurt a lot more.

Just for today, I can ponder forgiveness.

I came home last night from a very social evening to look in the mirror and find a sesame seed stuck between my teeth. I had eaten some wanna-be-sushi item from TJ's about four hours earlier and that thing must have remained lodged in place ever since. Have I no friends?! Has nobody the decency to take me aside for an awkward moment, to save me from three hours of Food In Teeth Embarrassment?!

I immediately messaged one friend from the evening and asked him to please feel free, in the future, to point out such things. Then I felt awkward for sending it. After all, whose responsibility are my food particles? He wrote back that he hadn't noticed, and, had he, he would have certainly told me.

I don't know if I believe him.

Just for today, I have issues with trust.