In Act Two of My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle declares to Freddy Einsford-Hill that she's "so sick of words. I get words all day through, first from him, now from you." She want Freddy to take action - and "Show Me." While I understand the sentiment of don't talk, show, I've never been sick of words. I love words. Words make me wet - to put it bluntly. I love to read them, hear them, sing them, write them, play with them, invent them. Words, words, words....fabulous words. So why is it that when I commit myself to sitting down and writing something specific - using my words to unleash my soul - that I suddenly can't find them. Or they seem foolish and empty. Or the universe steps in and says...no, you don't get to be a writer. I've called myself a writer for years. I've written poems that I think are bloody fantastic. I've written short stories and treatments and short plays and outlines and ideas and blog posts until I
A collection of musings and writings on my life, my loves, my movies, my friends, my family. My view - from my couch.