So, uh, yeah.
It never ceases to amaze me that Oprah Winfrey can read my mind. I don’t consider myself an Oprah devotee by any means, but this is only because I am a snob and don’t want to admit it. The book section of her magazine is the best there is, and her respect for writers and writing really touches me. This month’s “make yourself a better person because you are a good person on the inside even if all you want to do is lie on the couch and watch tennis” article is about being a “real” writer, which appears to have no definition other than regularity and a passion for the craft.
Not too long ago, I had both. I was loving being a part of this blog and felt absolutely nothing other than joy at having a little piece of me to add to the collective ether. I am proud of the project that we are doing (more on that later). I am proud of the accomplishments we have had in removing ourselves however slightly from the commercial food chain (more on that later). I am proud of the women that my children are becoming even though I want to strangle them much of the time (more on that later).
And then all of a sudden, it was gone. All I did for the entire month of May was bitch about how much I wanted summer to come, and how busy we were, and how tired we all were, and if summer would just come, it would all be fine.
At first, I only missed a week of blogging. We were out of town for our official start-of-summer trip to the beach, G started summer school, and all of the tomatoes started turning red. No big deal, just a bad week. Week two began with daily drives into Austin, which if I had to do every week, I wouldn’t. Sarah was a team leader for Vacation Bible School a/k/a Boot Camp for Jesus, and between the drive and the garden, and T’s overwhelming work schedule, it was chaos, so I didn’t blog. It happens. No big deal.
And then, I don’t know what happened. The two long weeks that I had neglected this place became shameful. I hadn’t written, and therefore, I didn’t want to write. I was embarrassed. I was the worst blogger, the worst writer, the worst person in the world. Crazy, probably, but there it is. So, I did the only logical thing. I skipped writing for two more weeks. Because ignoring it always makes the problem go away.
There it is. I could choose to beat the shit out of myself for something that was totally within my control or not.
I chose not. So, here I am, for what it's worth. The kids and I will work on patching together the QC, and I'll get back to work.
All will be well, and all will be well. (Julian of Norwich) (I think).