fiance, student, homeschool retiree, preschool teacher wannabe, Senior Living Coordinator, writer of many things unsaid, blogger, lover of the creative, most cheerful depressed person, devourer of books, crafty wanna be, amateur tech support, internet junkie, facebook stalker, tweeter of tweets, Pagan, friend, sister, daughter, aunt, karaoke super-star

I haven't written today...

I had promised myself this past month that I would write everyday. That I would write something-anything!
Well I failed...because it's now 12:28 tomorrow.

So maybe if I write something very poignant it will make up for ruining my month long record. Right?

Tonight I read aloud to the boys the 6th Chapter in Mrs. Piggle Wiggle by Betty MacDonald. ( I promise this is not some sappy Mommy tale. I try to keep those sort of posts quarantined to our family blog.) It was titled The Radish Cure, about how a little girl refused to bathe. Mrs. Piggle Wiggle suggested the parents let her go unwashed until a sort of crusted soil covered her. Then they were to plant radish seeds on her body, pressing them into the soil. Well as you might guess, the seeds sprouted one day. The horrified little girl ran to show her mother, who simply began harvesting little radish from her daughters skin. Needless to say, the little girl begged to bathe after such a traumatizing event. She scrubbed herself clean in the shower for hours until she was a clean and sweet little girl again. Then she feed the radishes to her father when he came home from work. My point in telling this story is that this is how I feel about my writing sometimes.

I think about writing. I think about it in the shower and while I'm driving. I think about my characters. I think about what things they might say or how they might behave. I jot down names I hear on the TV, from signs, or overheard on the radio that might make good characters. I dwell on plots and time lines. Soon all this jotting and thinking and pondering builds up an odd crust. It begins to feel quite constraining as if the story itself might come jumping out of my belly like in Alien. So then I have to write, write is all down as it over flows out of me. Just to get it out, even if the story doesn't make sense and the plots are all wrong. I just feel SO much better having put it out there in the world, wither on paper or screen. It wasn't pain free, more like giving birth than anything else I've ever experienced. Just as the little girl in the Radish Cure, grossly I might add, feeds the radishes to her father. I then feed you the unsuspecting reader my mental vomit in the form of words.

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