It’s the end of the year. I just wrote a small lovely book that I’m proud of. I have stock piled a wonderful set of short stories that I plan to compile into another anthology (this one bigger) of story collections that will be out in the spring, while I write my novel. But please don’t hate me because I haven’t written in the past week or so. Please don’t think I’ve abandoned you. I’m tired. My mind is a bit burned out from the thought process and the edits and the book covers and the back cover blurbs the low sales on Amazon the non-existent downloads on Kindle.

Perhaps this is one to chalk up as the first baby step, allowing another book or two to solidify my foothold, give me more to promote in the coming year. Maybe the compilation of my first quiet book along with my second semi-loud book will herald in the hella happy world of my novel about pianos and breakdowns and people looking for the lost folks of their past.

But right now, all I want to do is search the internet for movie times of films I want to see tomorrow (my birthday) and during the Christmas break.  Will it be “Birdman” at the Pacific Cinema in The Grove? Or will it be “The Theory of Everything”?  “Birdman” it is!  “Theory” will be for next week. Perhaps a spot of lunch at Morells?  Have a lovely holiday cocktail before going off for a little shopping?  Pick up some Cupcakes for birthday treats along with a little doggie cupcake for The Baxter Hound.

And all I want to do is finish Amy Poehler’s book and go on a binge reading spree on Lena Dunham’s and Andrea Martin’s and John Cleese’s autobiographies. I want to read Tony Robbin’s book about Money because I want to be independently wealthy. This is not a pipe dream. I want to find a groove where I earn money helping people write books. This is a serious goal for next year.

And all I want to do is think about redecorating my apartment – or taking my bike out and riding – or doing a little shopping – or toasting my dad’s memory tonight with a home made martini (it would have been is 88th birthday today – his b’day was the day before mine and we celebrated together), or shop online and look for that cool, dreamy purple lacy bra Jennifer Coolidge wears that peaks over her dresses on “2 Broke Girls”. I want to re-watch “White Christmas” and wonder why the hell Rosemary Clooney is always pissed at Bing Crosby? I want to see how long I can endure the military love in that film that boarders on cloying and sappy. I want to watch “Meet Me in St. Louis” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “Merry Christmas Charlie Brown” and “Elf”.  Perhaps watch a few DVR’d episodes of “The Chew” where I can live vicariously through the cookings of Mario Batali and Michael Symon since I no longer eat food, but exist on jogging, working out, hard boiled eggs, water and oatmeal because I’m thick and nothing is going to change that – not even malnutrition.

So, don’t be angry dear writing muse. I love you. Look – I’m writing now!  No, it’s not the kind of useful writing that builds a new project and is contributing toward actual publishable work – nevertheless –  I’m using you, see?  And I’ll get back to you during the holiday break, and go gang busters in the new year.  But it’s December. It the birthday weekend. I’m thinking of my dad in heaven and my mother’s Cuba – now open to the world – and the brand new 100 pound rolled up rug I’ve ordered from Overstock that is sitting in the lobby of my building until I get home and find my neighbors to help me lug it up the stairs.

I just want to have fun, muse. Okay?

That’s all I want to do.  I’ll see you soon.