It’s an hour before my bedtime and I have no idea what to write for this blog post. Since I vowed to keep this blog focused on writing, I’m not going to give my views on the Michael Jackson funeral circus or Sarah Palin’s strange resignation announcement.
I would never tell you that I love quiet indie movies like The Good Girl and Wendy and Lucy, or that I’ve seen The Apostle at least five times.
It would make no sense for me to tell you that I have seen a ghost, spoken in tongues, and cannot stand the thought that I have a skeleton inside me.
And I can’t think of any reason to mention that I’ve never eaten pizza that measures up to my expectations, rarely eat ice cream, love black jelly beans, and still hope to find, someday, those original candy lipsticks that were wrapped in gold foil, not the imitation ones they sell in the vintage candy shops.
You wouldn’t be interested to know that no matter how many times I see the spring woods, or hummingbirds, or Christmas lights, I’m always thrilled.
I’d bore you if I told you there is no better sound on earth than the laughter of delighted children, and no worse sound than the crying of a terrified, pain-wracked, or heart-broken child.
No, my only purpose here is to write about writing … which, I’m happy to announce, I’m finally back to doing. Like, yayyyyyyyy!