I am one of those lucky writers who people seem to read. Not just my friends, but people I’ve not met, old co-workers, and the contingency of people who will read me no matter what (this includes my mom, Shelly, and a few others) tend to check this blog.
And it’s driving me crazy.
Because I’ve been so busy and lucky writing for pay that I feel like I have nothing left for this blog other than random thoughts. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to the “New Post” tab on this page and started a blog entry. Invariably, though, I get about three sentences in and realize, “Huh. I got nothin’!”, at which point I delete the entry in frustration and soothe my ego by rereading one of my older posts from when I wasn’t so busy with work and not quite so happy with life. And now I’ve created in my mind the monster that is that “Re-Breakthrough Blog Entry”: the blog entry that will be so poignant, so funny, so thought-provoking that it will astound and delight even me. Energized by what I perceive as my success, I will start to post again regularly. I will write witty little things that make me laugh. I will recharge that part of a writer that gets recharged when they know they are writing not for money but the sake of writing.
As you may have surmised by now, that, has not actually happened. What has happened is that my personal writing has started to suck eggs trough a paper straw. And if that post exists, it’s nowhere discernible in my subconscious.
The lack of such a post cripples me. The thought of such a post cripples me. If I were a soldier, I wouldn’t even be able to get shot because I’d be lying in the back of the ranks, having a panic attack about losing the battle.
Well, today, that shall not happen, because I’m going to write a blog post that is absolute crap just so I can say that I’ve posted a blog entry. Hopefully, that will get me back in the saddle. But I do feel as though I have to apologize to any of you reading, because (if you haven’t gleaned this from the title) this is that such post.
I could blog about moving, where Daniel P. and I decided to wheel a mostly empty 55-gallon fish tank down the sidewalk to my new apartment a mere three houses away. The wheels on part of the tank stand collapsed (turns out it wasn’t meant to wheel down the street; who knew?) and Daniel P., with his ribs severely bruised from a recent kiteboarding “incident,” opted to repair the tank on the fly. In the street. On his back, with the tank propped up over him. The poor guy down the street whose house it happened in front of got roped into helping, and I now feel obligated to take his spinning class at the gym, which really could be a funny entry. Me in spandex is always funny somewhere.
But that’s the whole story and not a blog post in and of itself, so here it is, in the crap pile.
I could blog about trying to teach Luci and her two daughters how to knit. Luci has many gifts but knitting is not yet one of them. Her daughters- especially Jesse- caught on a little quicker, but I am not the best teacher. Of course, while I’m trying to explain how to cast on, in comes her husband, Randy. Who has multiple tattoos, fought in the first Gulf War, and used to drive a truck. Randy is what most would call a “man’s man” and no one laughs at his recent affinity for cooking because, well, one does not laugh at a man who has many tattoos. Plus, he’s not making petit fours. He’s cooking red meat in lots of beer.
So, anyway, in walks this man’s man who immediately gets the knitting and starts trying to coach Luci on how to cast on. They’ve been married almost 20 years, so they’re comfortable enough in their relationship that Luci had no issues expressing her lack of a desire for his help. In short, Luci- no slouch in the tattoo department herself- did opt to let him live. Barely. For now. Actually, I haven’t spoken to them in a while, so that’s really just an assumption.
But, see, not that funny. At least, not as funny as it was in my head. So add it to the crap pile.
In the new place, Scuppers the Wonder Cat has taken to deep-throating the metal window cranks. He chews on them. Blog worthy? I think not. Crap worthy? Seems like it.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve transitioned into some strange version of a 1950s housewife. Every week, I plan out lunches and C. and I go shopping for the week. We then cook roasts and lasagne and chicken (not all at once) to make up the lunches for the week. While that all seems very Chex Mix in theory, somehow it works for me. Ahem, for us. And it, too, seemed a lot funnier than it does right now. Something about me donning a shirtwaist and pearls and making a meatloaf. But now? Into the crap pile.
I think that’s enough crap for right now. I have no promises of it being out of my system. The best I can do- the very best- is tell myself it’s OK to post crap and that I’ll post again soon.
So, you know, stay tuned for more crap. It has to get better eventually.
