It’s been a while.
Many a time since my last post I’ve sat myself down and pulled up this blog with every intention of writing something meaningful; something that might touch my readers in a profound way.
Best case scenario, right?
Truth is, I knew that, more likely, I’d end up writing something important to me, some post written to help me get myself through the latest crisis; smooth some aggravation relative to my writing.
I couldn’t do it.
Therein lies the problem. I’ve been focusing on me and mine on this blog. In doing so, I think I’ve distanced myself from those who’ve been kind enough to visit this little blog. The proof is in the data. Fewer folks stopping by, fewer yet responding, and those who do–my stalwart supporters–offer cursory comments at best.
Why? Because I am spewing forth my own angst-ridden drivel and offering little for the reader to grab hold of, to commiserate with, to nod and say, Exactly, kk! How did you know?
Note: What I just wrote about my stalwart supporters isn’t true. I know it isn’t. Why did I write it, then? Because I’m a fool. And because I tend to embellish when I’m down on myself, which I guess I am.
Down and selfish and self-centered and unpublished and–
There I go again.
Anyway, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from writing about stuff that meant something to me, but didn’t necessarily connect with my readers. At least, that was my thinking. I wrote that last blog post and stopped, not because of some conscious, selfless decision on my part, but because I knew anything I wrote would be nothing more than contrived bullshit, or selfish whining. As a result, the glut became the antithesis of glut.
The writer had nothing of value to say.
Fast forward to this morning, when the writer found herself doing laundry and whatnot. I put a load in the dryer and decided to take a mini-break so I lay myself down on an air mattress we set up a week ago, just in case. I was just going to lie there for a minute. It felt good so I shut my eyes, thinking maybe I could take a little nap but right away, I was gripped with angst: I should be editing ALBERT, not lying here wasting time. How am I going to get anything done this way? I have to get that sucker done so I can start querying. I need to get published, that’s it. CHERRY and ALBERT. Who am I kidding? It’s not happening. The odds are so minute as to be laughable. Nobody’s responding. I don’t have what it takes to be successful, I know I don’t.
I opened my eyes, sat up and looked around. Not much to see, tile on the floor and some paneling. Nothing special. A basket of clothes yet to be washed. Boxes of stuff from school, from my teaching days–things I can’t bring myself to throw away. An old chest freezer. Boxes of dishes and pans. I scanned the room and then I saw it: the small piece of paper I’d tacked to the wall a million years ago:
To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one’s self, to leave the world a bit better. . .; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived — this is to have succeeded.
Thank you, Mr. Emerson. Sometimes we get so mired in the machinations of daily life, the daily grind, the responsibilities and worry, regret and self-doubt that we forget how fortunate we are to have family. Friends. Our dear, stalwart supporters who give of themselves so generously. We forget how we feel when we give unto others. When we are kind and thoughtful. When we listen. When we express gratitude. Kindness. Joy. Forgiveness. Faith. Hope.
I forgot the important stuff, you guys. I shall try to remember. I shall try to do better. Thank for visiting my little blog and Merry Christmas, everybody.