Most times when I sit down to blog, I have at least a vague idea of what I want to say. Other times, a simple phrase gets lodged in my noggin' and the only way to work it out is through intensive syntax gymnastics. Lately though, I've just been ... empty. Mind you, I've got a half dozen subjects lying around, but for the life of me I can't think of a satisfactory way to unravel them. Not that I ever out too much forethought into my posts. Rather, I slump in front of my (gleaming new) keyboard and watch my fingers rub the letters off. As for re-writes, you gotta be kidding me. Count yourself lucky if I think to hit Spell-Chcek. You might say I'm blessed in that department, for I can usually throw myself into enough of a trance and let the guy in my head take over. Lately though, it's been tougher to summon that voice, to focus on my odd hobby as if my very paycheck depended on it. It doesn't, but my mental health sure as hell does. Fret not, however, for I'm climbing no towers (I'm WAY too lazy for that). Neither am I checking into rehab, shaving my head or even planning to exit my limo sans panties. Nope - I ain't crazy, not even depressed. But I wrestle with melancholy more than you know. Occasionally it gets me in a headlock I cannot escape and I find myself hovering over the delete button...
Relax. I'll never deep-six the blog. My ego couldn't stand it. I'll probably concoct these operas 'til I'm old and sputtering - at which point I hope my oldest daughter will wheel me away from the computer before I resort to posting song lyrics, pet photos or recipes... A word on my eldest: Like her younger sister, she's an intriguing creature and if this were a different kind of blog I'd gladly expound on both my kid's' many talents. As it isn't, I'll refrain - but it's about time I divulge one undeniable fact: The oldest one HAS IT. Yes, she of the cello and heightened IQ can put words to paper in such a way that leaves me reeling. At this typing she hasn't much interest in freestyle composition; she'd much rather ruin the grade curve for the entire student body or drag me through another dress shop. But mark my thesaurus; that child can WRITE. Whether she ever chooses to, one can never tell, but for the time being her term papers read like the effortlessly florid essays they are. Though never the student she is, I KNEW from a young age I could communicate on paper far better than in person. I just assumed everyone else could too. Who knew?
Now then, where was I? Let's see: I've made some excuses, bragged on my children and totally ignored where this last paragraph was headed. I can live with that. What i can't abide however, is losing focus on these mystical pixels, for what little you may have gathered from them all these many moons pales in comparison for what they've done for me. Ego strokes notwithstanding, this humble blog has greatly attributed to my quality of life. It's provided an outlet for my half-baked aspirations, given me a discipline I used to fantasize about and kept me engaged in a career I long ago fell out of love with. Well, that's not entirely true. One cannot write as much about a single subject as I have without some underlying affection. And as much as I dream of one day writing for a living, I can't imagine what I'd yammer on about if I didn't have a steady supply of froth and atrocity waiting for me every time I lifted the lens. Hell, my 13 year old recognizes that and she still thinks Justin Bieber will have a career in 24 months. Soooo, while I clean out the cobwebs in my head and try to straighten up this place, know that YOU have my eternal thanks, for there's a fair chance you remember more of what I've written so far than I do.
What do you want for nuthin'?