It is easy to get hung up waiting for inspiration to strike. I want to be profound, insightful, hysterically funny–or at least entertaining. But that’s a lot of pressure to put on myself at the end of a long day working and mothering and, well, living.
And much of my day is spent measuring my words. Trying to be persuasive to this one and diplomatic to that one. Biting my tongue so as not to offend or offering praise in the hopes of bringing delight or cheering up.
Because in my “real life” out in the “real world” it is important that I get it just so. So, that is probably why writing this blog brings me so much joy. I do it for me.
I hope people like it; but that is assuming they actually read it. And I’m afraid that might be assuming quite a lot. I don’t really know–I don’t check the analytics. They scare me. If no one is reading I might get discouraged. If many people are I might get stage fright. And both of those take the focus off pleasing me and put it back on pleasing an audience. And, well, you see, I have enough people to try to please in that so-called real life. I don’t want to try to please you with my writing. I write because it makes me happy. And because when I do it I am free to use my real voice and say what I really think, tell my real experiences and show my real colors.
I can write about how when I was driving home tonight “Sweet Child O Mine” came on the radio (is it O’Mine or Of Mine? Doesn’t matter, I like O’Mine. See how that works?) and how Guns-n-Roses always reminds me of high school parties and being 16 and drinking Milwaukee’s Best or Schaeffer’s beer out of cans, hanging in basements and driveways on warmer nights out in the country. How when I hear Axl Rose I am immediately transported to a time where I snuck Camel Light cigarettes and thought my mother wouldn’t smell the stale smoke on my J Crew roll neck sweaters.
Or I can write about how we went to the movies yesterday, all five of us, to see The Chipmunks. And I spent a good chunk of the movie watching Little L watch the movie. He sat a couple seats over, shoveling popcorn into his mouth by the fistful. He was serious and intent and still. And he was such a big boy, with such big boy concentration and a big boy expression. Tears came to my eyes then and I feel them sneaking up on me now. Watching Little L grow up punches me in the gut every day. He is funny and silly and smart. My last baby is growing up fast and it knocks the wind out of me.
Or I can write about how I need to start exercising again, how my legs feel like lead and my arm flesh swings from side to side when I wave. How I am embarrassed that I used to run marathons (I quit those Camel Lights 11 years ago, thank you very much) and now could not run around the block on a dare. How I am afraid to even try because I know I will be frustrated by my out of shape, muscleless body and angry that I let it get so bad. I used to run no matter what, taking pride in running in rain and slogging through slush. I felt superior to people still snuggled in their beds while my feet pounded the pavement before sun up. Now I am the one hitting the snooze button and burrowing deeper under the comforter each morning. And I know that I was right. I was a better person for it back then. I would be a better person for it now. If I could only get up, get out and get going.
