Last updated on October 1, 2017
Blogging has caused a bit of a conundrum for me. The more I do it, the more I enjoy it, the more I remember when I used to love to write all the time, and the more I want to do so to the abandonment of all else.
From the time I was yay high (use your imagination) and learned to read, I vowed to write a book someday. The topics and genres varied, of course, over the years as I experienced life and read more; but the basic passion remained the same. I just dang blasted never did it!
I used to think it was for lack of organization, which is truly paradoxical since I am apparently the prime target customer for label-maker manufacturers. Nevertheless, I presumed this to be the problem over the years since I could never seem to keep my thoughts and ideas on the same page, much less the same notebook. Then, I got busy with law school and children and working and, well, life happened and the passion for writing was sucked right out of me (picture the Azkaban guards attempting to perform their soul-sucking dementorsâ€™ kiss on Sirius Black).
Now that Iâ€™m taller and have reverted back to reading Little Golden books more than anything else, I have realized that the true hindrance has not been organizational (for, letâ€™s face it, I label refrigerator shelves and color-code my daily calendar), but, rather, disciplinary. For instance, true self-discipline would have me: grocery shopping to buy, among other things, the bottled water Bryanâ€™s been requesting for days; or folding the basket of laundry I pulled out of the dryer yesterday; or calling around for car insurance quotes; or washing the dishes from last nightâ€™s dinner (btw those who know me know this is a real shocker; and, no thatâ€™s not sarcasm!); or doing any other more productive task than blogging!
Yet, here I am, pecking away once again while everything else around me blurs in and out (except for Ben who thinks itâ€™s funny to lay his head backwards on the laptop keyboard while jabbering something that sounds like â€˜look at thatâ€™). Who knows, perhaps blogging has rekindled the passion; or maybe it’s being back in Little Rock (maybe Little Rock is like my Walden only with more creature comforts and indoor plumbing). Now, if I could only channel the pecking into something more than pointless rambling, perhaps the possibility of writing a book would become more than a mere childhood romantic notion.
But, alas, the bigger predicament is two-fold: First, my mind is constantly churning in words and phrases, thinking about how best to put something into words rather than what to cook for dinner. So much so that last night, despite being so dead-dog tired that my eyes would not stay open long enough to read another chapter, and in spite of my trying to count Tom Wellings (oops, I mean sheep) to fall asleep, I was writing in the dark in my head. And, second, that, now that I am writing every day again, I must listen to Bryan, each and every day again, harp on me about how I need to just write â€œthat book youâ€™re always talking aboutâ€ and get it over with. Now, granted, Iâ€™d be lying if I said I didnâ€™t like the complimentary notions of my ability or the general encouragement and support, but, câ€™mon too much of a good thing can still be irritating (think beautiful, white, sandy beaches and ocean-front views; now, think, grains near your derriÃ¨reâ€¦you get the point), particularly when you canâ€™t seem to make yourself stay on the towel.