Some of you may have wondered “where is she?” The windows of wending.wordpress.com seemed to be boarded up these past three months. At first, it appeared I had taken an extended Christmas vacation, understandable. Perhaps I was busy working on the New Years resolutions. Losing weight. Organizing my files. Filing my taxes early. Perfectly explainable.
Then months past. The “Gone Fishing” sign on the door was collecting cob webs. Graffiti began to pepper the paint peeling walls.
I would like to say that I had been captured by Somali pirates, awaiting ransom. I reconnected with my high school boyfriend and realized I have been living a lie as a sushi-loving, married to a rock star wine maker, Obamacrat, mother of three beautiful children. I was forced to assume a new identity under the witness protection program and now blogging as a Latino man by night as I run a youth hostel in Borneo by day.
But in truth? I lost my muse. I would sit down to write a post and it would go something like this:
“Kids say the darn-dest things.”
Or
“Ever wonder where those little lint bunnies come from? Me neither.”
See? You should be PAYING me not to blog. You should be begging me not to pollute the blogosphere.
So, as my colleagues – Hemmingway, Salinger, Dickens, Morrison, Plath, Hurston, Twain – knew all too well, writers block can be debilitating. One day you and your muse are smoking along, the next: nada. The adjectives have dried up. The similes have vanished. The anecdotes disappear. You consider writing a sequel to Fun with Dick and Jane. See Dick run. See Jane run. Run Jane, run.
But today is a new day. Today is the day I channel the tenacious spirit of Scarlett O’Hare crossed with the prose of Garcia Marquez. Today is the day I write the great American blog post. No pressure. No worries. Just me and my muse writing a few pithy paragraphs of humorous, poignant, full-circle observations that every sentient being must read before dying. Easy peasey. Walk in the park.
Here it goes…
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
Perhaps a bit too much attitude. And what if my Mom reads it? A little too honest.
All this happened, more or less.
Strike that, either it happened or it didn’t, right? Too James Frey-ish.
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buenda was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.
Kinda depressing. Really, where could a story go with an opening like that? No one would read it.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom…
Catchy, but how can it be the best AND the worst of times. I think I would have to pick one.
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.
Draws the reader in, but I’ve only been to NY once. Do people really want to hear about the Rosenberg’s in 2009? Perhaps something more current.
The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.
Whoa – don’t know where that came from. Who knew I could write about military maneuvers.
Call me Ishmael.
I’m imagining a whale coming into play. I don’t know. Might be short on dialogue – a guy and a whale.
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.
Yeah. That’s it. Romantic. Family-appropriate. Something for all ages. Lacking controversy. Ohhhh – this is gonna be good.
I don’t think it’s too soon to say: I’m back!
