A muse with stix of dynamite

IF YOU HAVE THE TIME, it would be lovely to snag a very conservative pin-striped suit. I will pay up to $250 for such an outfit. Burgundy, for some reason, shouts out. A vest would be good but not necessary. Is there a fashionable place near you that might have such a three-piece suit, or two-piece suit? The small shops in Studio City are ridiculously over-priced, but I've seen suits advertised for less than $200. Target, Nordstroms? If there is some large women's department store near you, and you have half an hour, I'd ask you to pop in and get a suit and a nice beige or white blouse. Ultra-conservative stuff, the uniform of a money-chaser. Maybe something elegant from a consignment shop? There's that store on Ventura a block west from the starbucks, and I think they've got suits. But Target has very affordable pieces, too.

Like this?

But otherwise, come as you were.

I have spent many moments arguing with myself about the wisdom of devoting energy and resources to something killer, which I am sure I can make with your help. The words to give your character flood my head, but my constant inclination to create by myself warns me to sue the broken dams; poetry is a river I cannot control, a lesson I cannot learn, and a muse with sticks of dynamite and a scuba suit can release a million poems if she can figure out how to detonate her weapons in front of the concrete blocking the literary lake and not blow herself up in the process. I have my implacable future, my stories laid out and cinematic plans blueprinted, and now suddenly there is a wall, a mural of accomplishment looming: Dude, you can finish something unlike anything else and who cares if only two other people see it, think of how rare the fusion of a target and a bull's-eye shot can be even if I am the only person watching. And this target! Making Ananda Shields the most complex female character in a cinema of cartoon cliches, describing her fears and passions in such a way that every man can say, Wow, I wish I knew her as well as this stupid writer does or did, and that every woman can say, What's the big deal, she's no different from me. This argument has to be be blocked from my mind so I can be a charming thrill at dinner in Venice with people who can help me, and I do not know who is winning the tug of war for my attention, me or me?

What a lovely situation to be in; debating whether to accept or deny creativity. Which creativity?