Finding Libby
an excerpt

Mrs. Danvers, she is the neatness, the cleanliness, and the work ethic of me. She keeps me calm in when the children are bleeding rivers and their bones have forgotten their places and protrude from their arms and legs at rude angles. She nags at me to tidy up their messes in case company shows up unexpectedly. Although no one I know, except my parents, would even dare to stop by without calling. Mustn't disturb the artistic flow of the artsy-fartsy chick, they think. She's a writer, you know. She's so much smarter than we are, she must be attending to important intellectual pursuits, communing with the old literary masters, plumbing the depths of reason in all the western philosophy that ever was or maybe she's putting the final touches on that Viking story she's been talking about for years.
Yeah, right. I, the great literary genius of River City Heights, am at home alone, letting the dust pile up on the furniture, playing endless games of solitaire on a computer that should hold freshly typed novels worthy of critical acclaim. But there are no finished stories. Just fragments of an imagination crippled by some screwy Victorian ethos that's wormed its way into my soul.