I find it ironic that I have had such a difficult time creating my blog. Why? Well, it's because I have spent years ... YEARS ... writing. I have written piles of gut wrenching, horrible poetry, a ton of short stories, a number of children's books, and several novels-without selling any of it. Really, who wouldn't buy bad poetry? William Hung, reject of American Idol, sold the phrase, "I have no regrets" and released a couple of albums, People! Seriously.
What I discovered was that writing, in of itself, is not difficult. It's an act of putting thoughts into words and then, words on to paper. How hard could that be?
Until recently, I thought writing was the easiest thing in the world to do. It was easier than flossing, easier than following recipe directions in a cookbook, easier than making a left hand turn onto a busy road when you are from a state that has banished them in place of jug handles. It's easier than teaching a dog to return the toy in a game of fetch, easier than getting your sister to admit she was wrong for bashing you in the head with a golf club when you were ten years old, easier than getting a teenager to clean up his/her bedroom. It's easier than hearing your doctor offer advice like this when you are only 40 years old, "Well, if you were my mom, I'd tell you ..."
I know differently now. This isn't easy for me anymore. It's not that I don't have things to write about because I surely do. I could write about the UPS man who always leaves his packages right next to the front door in order to torment my dog. I could write about how frustrated I get wasting my time unsubscribing to emails I never actually subscribed to in the first place. (How do they find me???) I could write about the casual friend/enemy who never acknowledges that she has heard what I have said when I explain, "Sorry, we're busy this weekend. We couldn't possibly watch your cat, Skunky. Besides, I'm deathly, horribly, ebola like allergic to cats. I could die ... literally die if your cat even approaches me. Plus, we're going away. We won't be here. We won't even be in the country. Seriously, our plane leaves in like ... like 25 minutes. I'll barely make it to the airport. And, I could die, literally die, if I have to take care of Skunky ONE MORE TIME. Saddest thing of all is that I actually like cats, just not hers --and I'm allergic.
So here goes! I will consider this part of my weekly routine. Perhaps the fairy of all things written will visit me. With any luck, my kids won't swat her and the dog won't swallow her. Instead, she'll douse me with dust that won't make me sneeze and I will feel inspired. We'll see. We'll see.