In The Wild Grip of Those Moods.

Though, I believe a better term for it would be 'Moody'. I've quite become a Judy-moody. I suppose that is a step up from a Debbie-downer. What kind of fanged-monster resides in writers that makes them stereotypically mood-riddled? I am female AND a writer. I am completely nuts. Watch, I'll prove it.

Portrait of The Artist

      She is practicing for her future, this wildly plain young girl, scooping bite after bite of salted and boiled salmon into her perfect pink mouth. Of course she is alone, what else would she be? Her Book-of-the-Night lying prone in front of her with it's pages spread gracefully in front of her, baring it's seductive smile. The poor thing, shes been reading it for ages, or, moreover, not reading it because every time she dives in, she begins to day-dream of the greatness she hopes with a reverence will eventually tap on her shoulder. She wants to be a writer. Of course she will never find the greatness she is seeking, her prose is like swallowing a spoonful of molasses after you've already swallowed twenty.
       But the real point is that she is, in fact, very alone and eating her dinner at an empty table. There are people in the other room, you can hear them if you shut your eyes and make a focused sort of face.  She chooses to be alone in the still quiet of the vastly empty wooden table. In her head, this is pure and logical, a loneliness about oneself is exactly what every writer needs to straighten oneself out into a sharp clinical line; even if she is the one who wraps it around herself in all it's woolly glory. Her belief is that the initiation of ones lone-wolf howls is what brings about the greatness that always seems to taint her cravings.
      As she reads, she tilts her head this way and that, flashing her muddy greenies out from under butterfly-bone eyelashes; she practises clever nothings whispered into the quiet space around her, she extends her thin wrist, curling two fingers gracelessly around a nonexistent cigarette. She smiles at her own genius, believing her 'portrait d'un artiste' more brilliant than anything devised before her; she believes it hold a subtle cleverness distinct to her only. She cannot help puffing her chest out a bit, of course, it is perfectly natural for a person of such groundbreaking ideas and unfounded genius to have a slim moment of pride. But she quickly flattens this airy bit of self-absorbance between the palms of her clean, white hands. Hard work, she thinks, will get me where I need to go. And, thinking still of the brevity of her situation, she slaps the cow-skin covers of her book together and leaps up to find what she has christened her 'writing notebook'. 
       This untalented little waif does have the pose and poise of a writer, we must give her that. Her uncombed head of hair gripped in her free hand, she hunches over the paper in a concentrated, uncomfortable sort of way, a very serious expression on her face. The kind of expression that says 'do not interrupt me or I will shout at you in a uncalled-for and loud fashion.'
       She bites her thin lower lip and writes with diligent slow motions; punctuating and making her letter full and rounded like a child's. This graceless doll writes methodically, as if she already has the words waiting patiently in her plastic hands, pausing to blot a thick period at the ends of her lofty sentences. She stops and smiles lovingly at the paper with a peacock-like pride ruffling her feathers. The three sentence-graced paper is then folded and tucked neatly under the white curve of her plate.
       She carries a mild half-smile as she eats the rest of her salted and boiled salmon and, when a lanky gent wanders through her smooth, quiet space, she tilts her head in that coy way and tells him of her triumph. The clean curve of his skill dips in a condescending sort of way and he rolls his clear blue eyes under the shelter of his window-blind eyelids.  She mentally laughs at him, knowing what she does not know, that the utter stunner of her brilliance is far beyond his comprehension. She really is practicing for her future, this wildly untalented little waif. Come, let us watch her, bring the popcorn...