My husbands been nagging me to write. Preferably a blog, but he’d be happy with a magazine article, a short story, or an 800 page bestseller. Since a blog seemed infinitely easier than any of the latter, I decided to make the poor man happy and try my hand at writing about my glorious life wiping spit up with my bare hands and finding lost pacifiers in the dark.
I used to have a blog about my dating experiences in the not so distant past. The not so distant past being the period prior to the one in which I have a husband and two small male offspring that need me to feed, clothe and imbue them with the knowledge and beauty of the world. And ever since I’ve shown said blog to aforementioned husband, he has been on my case about starting to write again. He’s convinced I’m a creative genius; I’m not so sure about the creative part. Or the genius part. Granted, I’ve had my moments in the limelight, or small town limelight at least, like when I sold a photo of mine to the local college or when some random site highlighted my blog and called me a “single woman with the quirkiest sense of humor you’ll ever meet.” (Does that mean I’m supposed to introduce people to my sense of humor? Martha, this is my sense of humor, humor, meet Martha). But I figured its fun to write so why not?
Well, I’ll tell you why not. Because blogging takes time. Time I don’t have. And because blogging means finding time to read other people’s blogs so that they can find mine, which I will definitely never find time to do. And because blogging about a husband and kids seems a lot less sexy than blogging about dating multifarious multitudes of men And a million other reasons why not, which makes me wonder why I’m here writing.
I suppose the main reason is that since I started thinking about blogging my mind started writing blog entries on its own. Seriously. I had nothing to do with it. I’ll be innocently standing on line in Nordstrom when I hear an entire blog entry go off in my head. And they’re good. Of course, the real ones won’t ever be that good because it isn’t me writing the ones in my head, it’s this alter ego that just writes unasked. Perhaps she’ll appear when I’m actually sitting by the computer, but it’s unlikely.
But maybe I’ll get lucky.