I am not a writer. I have no published works past the poem that was printed in the school newspaper when I was 12. I have no published books, though I proudly keep a children’s book called “Nina Meets a Friend”, illustrated by me in the 4th grade, and promise to read it to my girls and pretend it’s an ‘actual’ book. I have no manuscripts except one called “Life Time” that is not quite finished. It is a little dark and hard to write so I take my time. Apparently, a lifetime.
I can dream in my head that one day I’ll be an “actual” writer and adorn myself with accolades that I practice my acceptance speech for. I can perfect my walk to the stage when I tag along with the director and screenplay writer to accept the statue for turning my work into an Academy Award winning movie. I can dream an impossible dream, let my imagination go wild, and never give up.
The reality, though, is that I write a blog. A brand new blog, at that. A good blog by some standards, a really bad one by others. I respectfully join the thousands of ultra talented and articulate women who put themselves and their lives, good and bad, in black and white, for all of the internet world to see. I open myself up to criticism, compliments and comparisons with every post I publish. It takes dedication, strength and persistence. Not to mention an immense amount of creativity. I can’t repeat a post, write on the same topic over and over again, or steal from an earlier post and embellish on it. My readers are too smart.
My blog, I feel, is the commercial of the writing world. I am blip on the screen, shown to the annoyance of many and interest of a few, taking time away from the important show that will be coming up next. Giving some a reason for a bathroom break and others a reason to take 30 seconds of their day and absorb what I am selling.
Either way, I am OK with it. Because I write for me. My blog is less expensive than therapy and a heck of a lot cheaper than the nanny I would have to hire to watch the kids while I go to therapy. And then to McDonald’s. For a Frappe. Because I need one.
I keep my blog honest, because I try to be honest in life. I keep it simple, because I wish my life were a little more simple sometimes. And I keep it going, much like I do myself each and every day.
I look forward to every single comment, good and bad, check my stats to see is anyone is reading and annoy the heck out of my Facebook and Twitter friends – for sport, really – with updates. I appreciate every single person that clicks on my page, even if it is only to send me a spam message. Because I now know, in the blogging world, just to have anyone read it is a HUGE honor!
I am a stay at home Mom with three precious, beautiful, God given little girls. I am blessed that they are healthy, thrilled that they all seem to be somewhat ‘normal’, and humbled by my blessings. I try like crazy to keep my head above water, my feet on the ground, and my families names straight. I want my husband to work less, need my family to visit more, and know that neither will ever happen.
And when I look at my pile of hats, cast aside casually now that everyone else is asleep – mom, wife, friend, sister, daughter, maid, chef, accountant, consoler, planner, forgiver, laundress, gofer, chauffeur, and on and on – I stroke the one that says blogger with a certain pride and appreciation.
Because just like I try to parent with laughter, humility, and love, my goal is to write with the same. Taking something from its infancy and teaching it to be something more than it ever thought it could. A star that will shine, proud of its own light and fire, despite being lost in a very large sky.
I am not a writer.
But I play one in my living room.
That is who I am.