I’ve always been full of them. Great plans. Resolutions. Grand intentions.
I sit here wondering where I am going to go with this blog. What I intend to do with it. Do I even need to have a plan??
Last night, when I was full of my nicely rounded, masterfully blended, dark red liquid courage (with “just a hint of vanilla and mocha”), I resolved to write everyday. To creak open the rusty hinges of a wish to put words together.
After I had a chance today to wash away the remaining fuzzy film of late night recklessness with a cup of bracing, dark brown, full bodied (“with a hint of caramel undertones”) reality, I look around and wonder how the hell I am going to do that.
How the hell am I going to do that with kitchen counters full of dirty dishes (because I was on the computer) and bits of chewed up dog bed scattered everywhere (because I was going to get to that as soon as I was off the computer) and piles of mail to go through, and loads of laundry, and a bedroom that I need to finish painting, and fur balls that need to be vacuumed, and….and the list goes on.
I used to think when I was much younger that writers sat down and the words poured forth onto the page. In High School, I realized that this was not true. Writing was more effort than that. Writing involved so much more than that. You see, to me, writing was all-encompassing. It had to be true, and it had to be genuine, and it had to be original, and it had to be unique, and it had to be special, and it had to be perfect. It had to be your soul, Your Self, on that page. And the realization of what writing was to me, how much effort and time – oh how much time!! – that it would take to accomplish that, roared up, fangs bared, and like Medusa herself, turned my mind to stone.
I was vanquished.
Here I am now. Facing her again.