Awkward Mom vs. Doubt

You know that little voice that writers are supposed to have? That strong, steady, if small, voice that dwells within and tells writers that they aren't crazy. Whispers to them that they are supposed to be writers. The little voice that admits, yes, we are all artists, but you, my love, have something special. Something burning that should be shared with the world before it blows up inside you due to lack of eyes. That voice that writers cling to when the rejection and doubt and frets and fusses come to call. That powerhouse hidden within a reed; an aria from a mouse.

Well, my mouse must be taking a smoke break with the cool kids because she is no where to be found, and the frets and fusses are hungry. All I have to give them are semi-poems and self-pity. Hardly a meal. They'll soon turn on my creative core, hardly sated. That's really more of a centerpiece; delicate as an orchid and not made to be pawed by Doubt and his heavies. I am running out of poem peanuts, so if you see my writer voice, please send her home.

And tell her to stop smoking; her voice is hard enough to hear as it is.

Where's this Doubt guy, Mommy?

I have a heavy of my own I would like him to meet.