I Guess I Should Tell You...
August 30, 2007
CAUTION: LONG AND BORING POST AHEAD
I called my sister last night and gave her the normal telephone greeting, "Hi Kate, it's Amy." But instead of getting any kind of normal response from the girl, she replied, "NO BLOG!?" I guess the lack of Lawsons threw her individual planet off of its axis for a day--must have been traumatic.
"You always write a blog on weekdays," she explained, "you ALWAYS do." And instead of telling her the real reason for the bloglessness, I changed the subject and began talking about scrambled eggs.
I didn't have blogger's block yesterday, in fact, it's not usual that I do. Instead, I had a stroke of inspiration. I sat down on my lucky loveseat, like I do everyday, and began to write. But instead of opening up Blogger, I opened up a Word document...a blank one.
Before I go any further, let me back up a bit. This blog started in March or April--I don't really remember--on my myspace page. In a blatant effort to avoid working on my thesis, I wrote a little story about trying to buy James a cabbage patch kid. Much to my surprise, it was kind of witty--at least my mom said it was. Then came a little story about teaching James to call me "Hot Mom" instead of plain old "Mom", and then I think I wrote about a high kick contest gone bad. I was ridiculously behind on my thesis, and loving every sweet moment.
A few weeks before my thesis was due, I wrote a running skirt review, and posted a link to it in the daily Mom's discussion thread in the Runner's World forums. It got tossed around the discussion boards a little bit, and all of the sudden *BAM* I had gotten seven comments on one post. And that was that, I started blogging all the time.
But more importantly, I made a very secret promise to myself. I decided that I'd write as much as I could through the summer, see how it went, and then in the fall, I'd try to do something with all of it. In other words--wow, I hate to admit this--I'd try to become a writer.
Well guess what? Here in Dallas, the summer is over. Not in terms of the heat (everyone still has kickin' B.O.), but the school year has started, I have one-hundred-and-thirtyish blog posts, and it's time to make good on my promise.
There are certain types of personal commitments that I'm no good at following through with--they tend to be small ones. How many times have I said to myself, "I will do laundry twice a week!" or "I'm going to lose ten pounds!" or "I'm gonna read this month's book club book!" I can't even tell you how many times I've made those claims, and I've never EVER helped them come to fruition.
But the big things, like "I'm running a marathon." or "I'm going to finish this masters degree." or "I'm going to find a way to be a stay-at-home-mom on twenty-two-thousand dollars a year.", those things have always worked out. I'm going to file "I'm going to have a career as a writer" with the big things, and if I follow my typical patterns, it might just happen. Despite my most genuine efforts, I'm sure that my child will continue to be bathed only when my mother comes to visit, but this writing thing?--I can make it happen.
So yesterday, like I was saying, I sat down on my couch, opened up Microsoft Word and typed the phrase:
A surge of tingling excitement welled up inside my chest...and then I had the overwhelming urge to boof. Yes, I'm writing a book. How unbe-freaking-lievably ridiculous is that? Totally, I know.
I've spent the summer doing a great deal of research about freelancing (I even have a subscription to Writer's Market), but I can't dispel the nagging feeling that it's just not for me. I realize that it's far more practical, and I know that I'm completely capable, but I'm not sure I'm passionate about it. I'm going to write a book, and chapter one is moving right along...
So let the nervous farting begin!
I'm not going to tell you what the book is about. There are only two people who know--Jared and James. Jared happens to be the greatest secret keeper I've ever met, and James doesn't have a very firm grasp on the English language, or the world for that matter. He politely requested elephant sandwiches for supper last night, so I think my topic's safe with him.
James would probably tell you that my book was about evil robots wearing tutus, or something crazy like that. I can't even begin to tell you how off the mark that is! My book is actually about two magical unicorns seeking a music career in Nashville.
Wow, I should stop, I fear I've said too much already.