Sunday, December 6, 2009
And so we’ve sunk another week into the backwater swirls and eddies, fodder for a rainy day or perhaps a remnant dendrite misfire a decade or two removed from the moment. I’ve got a bubbling crock of anglicized red chile and burger enchiladas aging on the counter, the husband is still conscious and the spawn? Well I don’t see appendages flailing from the back of the batcave, so I guess we can chalk up a filial ceasefire. Since the great Boehm castle disaster of 2009, the PC is now relocated to a spot where I cannot comfortably zone in on the screen and my favorite cyber addiction – the blog. I suppose that means I’ll either spend more time with my ample hindquarters creating a happy groove in my couch, or I’ll inundate the bandwidth with quasipentacostal faithlite cheese. Today I choose the latter. Yesterday, I suppose the former would have been the more viable option.
Not sure what it is, that toxic mix of hormone induced disphoria and epic career stress that makes us rightbrainers occassionally fink out but we do. Depending on our proximity to either a sharp object, a loving relative, or a delete key – often there’s messiness, culling and bloodletting. I make no other excuse for my presence now at wordpress as I considered cybercide of at least two other blogsites I frequent. Instead, I did the really stupid thing and opened another site. You see? I’m a writer by passion and lately it seems I’m writing for the dustbunnies under the desk as much as anything. All the mindless bandwidth emos have clogged the creative sieve at my favorite writers site, gumming up the updates with woetry and pornems and even my little blog haven seems more like a library or a dental office waiting room than my happy place. Suffice it to say, I’m restless, irritable, ornery. I need chocolate. I need a full body message. I need anejo tequila in a crystal snifter. Well, maybe not. I just need to write “me” again. After all, blogging is the equivalent of talking to oneself in the mirror (without the reality check of catching that bit of spinach in one’s bicuspid.)
And so, I’ve promised myself to return to my daily blogging. I’ve lost so much this year between the passing of my dad, the unbelievable schedule at work and the total tanking of my first novel “Bethany’s Crossing” (because I had no time to promote the thing)I am tired of sacrificing the part of my identity that brings me personal peace. Last weekend when I sat down at my keyboard, realizing I was 30 thousand words away from my nanowrimo goal and only had four more days to achieve it before missing the mark for a third year running, something snapped. When my dear but often clueless spouse raised his hackles about car maintenance, it occured to me that unless I am prepared to fight dirty for my craft, the world, the job, the kids and rush hour traffic will simply snuff the muse for good.
And so, the Tam ain’t playin. I will write. Poetry, blogs, the rest of my novels and whatever else I think of. I”m back and nothing is taboo.