On Writing

I bumped into a friend this week who told me that she read my blog.  I was surprised, embarrassed and only slightly flattered, all at the same time. 

Surprised, since our friendship extends mostly to bumping into each other occassionally around town.  Not that being BFF's is any prerequisite for annonymous blog readership.  Still, my surprise was quickly pushed aside by embarrassment.  This old thing, she used to be so much more.

Silly, I know, that my internal dialog was instantly apologetic, wishing I could give her better reading material than the weekly journal recap of our week.  But she's a mom with young kids, too, and I'm pretty sure she understands the routine of lack luster posts.  Just preserving the memory, folks, because early stages of dementia should kick in any day now.

Mostly though, it's the sleep factor that prohibits better writing.  I can sleep.  Or I can write.  Can't.  Do.  Both.  And with young kids who want nothing more than to tap dance across the keyboard, writing pre-bedtime isn't really an option either.  Raise the white flag of surrender, you bloody mongers.  

Since the turn of events that morphed brilliant writing into the duldrums of recording keeping--posting weekly journal recaps rather than creative discoveries of words taking life--quite frankly, I don't even read my blog.  I'm pretty sure, although he denies this, that Mr. Forget-me-not only pretends to read it.  And that's only after I've asked him something specific, followed by the shaking finger of scorn, "I posted it to my blog, Honey.  What?  You didn't read it?"  

So, yes, blogging isn't what it used to be.  Somehow I'm holding onto the hope that efficiency will have some redemptive power.  Or perhaps I should hang my writing dreams upon the advice, Stephen King, penned in his How-To Biography of sorts "On Writing."  He advised that good reading begets good writing. 

As a mother, and aspiring author, I'd like to think that reading (and re-reading again and again and again) the armful of bedtime stories for my children each night, counts.  More than counts.  Reading picture books to my children, may not be what Mr. King had in mind, when he advised budding authors to read then write.  (Hey!  Wait a second.  Maybe this was sneaky self-promotion?)  Even so, for me, within the pages of each picture book, holds the promise that in the years to come, when bedtime stories for sleepy little people are no longer an essential part of our day, then, maybe then, there will be time to write. 

Until that time, I'll read, countless bedtime stories to my little loves and write the memories of our days upon my heart.  Because someday soon, much to my chagrin, Wooly, will realize that "Wooly and the Purple Crayon" isn't the book's real title.  Until that sad day comes, I will continue to read it several times a week, making note to opt out Harold for Wooly's name.  He's quick to correct me, should I forget. Harold would be flattered, I'm sure.  

Always on the grow,