Sorry for the long delay. It wasn't intentional. I'm not selfishly stockpiling hilarious stories to keep all for myself. Just hit a bit of a hurdle that I kept tripping over. See, the reason I began this little blogging endeavor was to build up my writing muscles by forcing myself to actually do it on a regular basis. That way, whenever I do have sparks of good ideas, I won't trip and wheeze my way though it until I finally give up about two-thirds of the way through. (This, of course, in no way is informed by my actual physical fitness experience with, say, running. Or biking. Or trying to walk up to the third floor of my office building, bailing after Flight Two, and walking out of the stairwell and to the elevator, riding it the last floor up.)
When I started this blog, I thought the pressure of coming up with things to say would be the biggest hurdle. As anyone who knows me can tell you: that was a misplaced fear. No issue there.
However, what did NOT occur to me was that, as my fingers hovered over the keys, I would immediately start comparing the post I was about to write with posts I've already done. Case in point: the other day I got a spark to write about one of my biggest childhood crushes, which had some interspecies complications. Before I had even gotten the first sentence rolling, this ran through my head:
Okay, here we go! First sentence of a new post! Gotta make it good, you haven't posted in weeks. The future of this entire blog has culminated in this moment. Gotta make it great. Well, good. Crap. How is this post going to turn out? What if it's too short? Or too long? How the hell am I going to draw an illustration of my love of all things Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, specifically my obsession with one particular shelled weapon wielder? Who the hell cares that I was, for a few short years, completely smitten with a reptilian genetic freak? Nothing's going to top that story about my friend Stephanie's little girls pooping in the tub. Have I peaked? Maybe I've reached the pinnacle of my storytelling career: a quick anecdote about bowel movements of children?
And they aren't even my children! Hey, genius, here's a thought: instead of writing about other people's child-ridden lives, how about going out and living my own stories? It's like what Meg Ryan (pre-lip-inflation) said in that cinematic masterpiece, You've Got Mail : "So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around?"
More importantly ....
How sad is it that I'm using a quote from a movie about a fictional character's depression over not living out in the world enough to illustrate my anxiety over not living out in the world enough?
And, most importantly of all...
Why in the world do I love the movie You've Got Mail ? Seriously, I've been known to watch it multiple times a day. A. Day. In my defense, most multiple viewings occur on days when I'm cleaning the living room or washing dishes or engaging in a 9-hour marathon knitting session. Why, my hands are so tied up with dust cloths or soap suds or yarn loops I couldn't possibly extract them from to swap out movies. Plus after the credits, the DVD player so conveniently switches back to the main menu. I might as well lean my elbow on the remote to play it again.
All of those thoughts? Crammed right in there between the first word and the first period of the first sentence.
I digress.
So I'm diving back in and am going to recommit myself to post more regularly. Even if I think what I'll write will be garbage. Even if my sketches look like the random garble a lemur would crap out after a particularly upsetting meal of kale. Even if there's a My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding marathon on TLC.
Well, maybe after one episode. I mean, come on. A wedding dress the size of a small Volvo in the shape of a cat, with whiskers for sleeves? How can you pass that up? Eh, I'll write something during commercials.
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