My Writing Space

I can't remember when I bookmarked Cafe Writing: Scribblings on a virtual napkin, but I rediscovered it today while tidying up my folder of bookmarks. It was saved under Ellen's Favourites -> Writing. I do remember thinking I it would be interesting to try some of their projects. Their projects have several options with a choice of different forms (poetry, fiction, essay, etc.) For some reason, I never returned until today. Better late than never.

So here is my first Cafe Writing Project for 2009. Since I'm a list person, I've chosen a list prompt to get started.

Option Six: Seven Things:

In a mood of faith and hope my work goes on. A ream of fresh paper lies on my desk waiting for the next book. I am a writer and I take up my pen to write..
~Pearl S. Buck
In improvisation, one of our exercises is a game called “Seven Things,” in which we go around in a circle giving each other the challenge, “Give me seven things that [whatever].” We are not going to go around in a circle here, but if you’re drawn to lists, this prompt is for you.

Give me seven things that inhabit or occupy your writing space. Interpret “writing space” any way you please. You’re not required to explain the items in your list, but it’s more fun for readers if you do.

My Writing Space

1. Computer
   Where would I be without my computer; my link to the world, Wikipedia, online dictionaries, thesauri and Google?


2. Family Picture
   Because of space limitations, I only have room for one. The current picture is one of me and my husband with our older son and his girlfriend taken when we were in Hawaii last year. It brings a lightness to my heart every time I look at the smiling faces.


3. Paper and a jar full of pens
   I'm a note-taker and scribbler. I must have paper and pen readily at hand. Sometimes I jot down an idea, sometimes I scribble a reminder to do something. I've learned that I can't rely on memory anymore. If it's of any importance whatsoever, whatever pops into my head needs to be written down before it dissipates into the ether.


4. Coffee Mug half-full
   - of coffee or tea ranging in temperature from cool to cold. It doesn't start out that way, of course. It's usually steaming hot when I begin, then gets cold as I forget about it while doing my thing on the computer. The mug has my name on it, lest I forget.


Away from my computer:


5. A Spiral-Bound Journal
   I've used all kinds of journals, but I prefer the spiral-bound ones (preferably black or purple) because they lay flat and when folded back are much more compact for writing on the go.


6. Pen
   I'm pretty particular about my pens. I like the black gel ones in fine or extra-fine point that flow easily and don't skip. They're also good for sketching and doodling.


7. Digital Camera
   My camera helps me hone into the details of my surroundings. I take lots of photos. Most are just so-so. Every so often, I take one that makes me stop and want to share in writing.

Sunday Scribblings - Fearless

Arms out
Joyous
Running
Balls to the wind.

Eyes wide
Heart-thumping
Leap
Into the black hole of unknowns.

Accepting
Expecting
Love
Pain
Loss
Sorrow
Knowing
Mortality hovers.

Running
Leaping
Regardless

Is fearless.



Another Sunday Scribblings prompt.

Sleep - Sunday Scribblings

Sleep can be

rejuvenating
refreshing
inspirational

Just what the doctor ordered.

Too often

needed
drug-induced
fitful and nightmarish.

Elusive.


More Sunday Scribblings

My Blog - Top Ten + 1

Sorry to those on feeds for so many edits. :(

I've recently been going through my old blog posts and trying to update their tags and labels. It's been a rather onerous task.

When I started blogging in November 2005, I had no idea what or how tags and labels worked, so I didn't label anything. Big mistake. I ended up with a long list of post titles, some of which were less than enlightening (what the heck did I talk about in Odds 'n Sods on a Sunday?). Thus, in order to gain some semblance of order to my posts, I decided that it's worth the effort to label them properly. This has meant going back and actually re-reading what I've written over the last two years.

It's been a bit of an eye-opener. I barely remember some of the posts, yet others are as fresh in my memory as if I wrote them yesterday. I'm not done yet, but a few posts jumped out at me more than others. I've come to realize that the totality of all my posts really does capture who I am as a person.

Naturally, I like some posts better than others and some are near and dear to me for personal reasons. I've decided to list my top ten blog posts (at least for now). I think it also shows my evolution as a blogger. When I get a chance, I think I'll add them to my sidebar. They'll probably tell you much more about me than any "About" page.

So, in chronological order, the top ten about who I am:

• To blog or not blog - November 2005
  - My opening post.


• What's wrong with a bit of idealism? - November 2005
  - Wherein Ell ponders philosophical questions.


• One of These Days - February 2006
  - Just because . . .


• Sunday Breakfast - February 2006
  - A rant about cellphones, parents and family.


• Elderblogger - March 2006
  - Wherein Ell comes to terms with the word 'elders'.


• Father's Hands - April 2006
  - Prompted by an old photo.


• An homage to favourite bloggers - May 2006
  - My inspirations. Some have disappeared into the ether that is the blogosphere, but others have taken their place.


• Home Alone - March 2007
  - Random thoughts about blogging and bloggers.


• Of Trophy Wives and Silicone - July 2007
  - This is a reprint of something I wrote in 2001 (unrevised), but which I think still applies.


• Guest Blogging - August 2007
  - Here's the direct link to my guest blog at Time Goes By.


• Sunday Scribblings: A Rome Walk - November 2007
  - Because I love traveling, photos and writing.

I couldn't resist sneaking in an extra post. Guess which one. :-)

Of trophy wives and silicone

Something from my old site, circa 2001

Aaaah, finally on a dream vacation to Mexico. There I was, under a beach umbrella, comfortable on a chaise lounge, reading a fat historical novel -- when right next to me I heard, "Babe, I hate to tell you this, but I think they're REAL. Come here, take a look."

Intrigued, I peered over my book to look at the Neanderthal who called his significant other "babe" in public (don't babes belong on the arm of some mob boss in an old time gangster flick). Sure enough, there was this big, buffed-up, twenty-something guy, looking like a football linebacker, standing with a male friend on a small retaining wall that overlooked the beach. He was motioning to his girlfriend to climb onto the wall. This was followed by some giggling and "Babe" getting another girlfriend to join her.

"There, in the purple," points Neanderthal Man. The two women reply, "No way. No way they're real." The four of them stood on the wall for several more minutes discussing how to tell the difference between real and fake. They were anything but discreet.

The subject of their debate was a young woman who had been causing whiplash at our resort for days. She seemed, to put it delicately, very well-endowed. The foursome were obviously discussing the composition of her breasts -- real or man-made.

Several thoughts came to mind while observing this little scene. First of all, I wanted to kick Neanderthal Man in the balls. It's one thing to look at other women while with your wife or girlfriend - it's quite another to make a point of telling her what you're ogling. In essence, it seemed he was really saying, "Hey, babe, I'm looking at breasts. Wow, look at the size of those!" Didn't it occur to him that Babe might think he was making comparisons? And if he took such joy at looking at other women's breasts, that she might feel a tad under-developed for his tastes? This guy was definitely not Mr. Sensitive. (Babe, by the way, was very pretty). Then I thought, what female in her right mind would hang around a guy like this? Not only be with him, but participate in his salivating voyeurism?

Over the next few days, I kept thinking about this incident. It kept playing over in my mind as I observed the same guy and his friend doing double-takes at every female under the age of forty. Then I started taking a closer look at the women on the beach. Was it my imagination or were there an inordinate number of D-cups out there? No, it wasn't my imagination. There really were a lot of enhanced breasts out there. -- and, yes guys, most women can tell the difference even if you can't. Here were all these beautiful women with toned, slender bodies who felt it necessary to augment their breasts to look like Pamela Anderson clones. More often than not, they accompanied older, paunchy men with lots of jewellery. It's the first time I've seriously thought about the term "trophy wife". You know, the gorgeous, perfectly-turned-out women seen on the arms of VIPs, execs, sports celebs, and other up-and-coming young men. You hardly hear anything about who these women are or what they do, but they sure look good in photo ops and social soirees. Could it be that this is what young women are aspiring to become? Breast augmentation certainly ain't for their health.

I felt myself getting angry. I wanted to shout, "What's the matter with you? Haven't you heard about all the women who've had implants removed because of complications? Have you thought of how ridiculous you'll look at age 65 when gravity takes it's toll, your butt sags, your neck gets crepe-y, and your upper arms jiggle, but your breasts remain perfectly firm, symmetrical and perky? Where's your sense of self-respect?"

I have visions of archaeologists, millennia from now, unearthing 21st century coffins and wondering what bizarre ritual required leaving plastic pouches of silicone on the chests of female bodies. Then I thought how sad and pathetic that these women might actually need breast implants for their self-esteem, or think that it's the only way to remain attractive.

And it was with this mixture of sadness and anger that I considered the main reason women undergo major surgery to get breast implants. They want to attract men. They want to please the men in their lives. And Western men are obsessed with breasts. Large breasts. Men don't seem to care whether the breasts are real or synthetic, as long as they're large. What's with that? First of all, they are essentially lusting after mammary glands, meant for nourishing the young of the species. Second, they are lusting after inanimate pouches of silicone, saline, or whatever else scientists come up with to fill the pouches. I obviously don't get it - but I'm not a man.

As a woman, it's distressing to see intelligent women (they can't all be bimbos) choosing this and other cosmetic procedures in increasing numbers. Plastic surgeons report that despite the potential risks, more and more women are choosing breast augmentation. Teenaged girls are getting breast implants as graduation presents for gawdsakes! It's like the women's movement never happened. Remember how women fought to be viewed as individuals, not just sex objects? How they wanted to be more than just adjuncts of a man or a trophy wife? It seems appearance over substance has won out after all.

I guess that's what I'm really upset about - the thought that the women's movement of the 60s and 70s has come to naught.

Which brings me back to Neanderthal Man and Babe. My guess is that Babe went home and made an appointment with a plastic surgeon and had some serious discussions with her girlfriends about the merits of a D-cup versus a double C. Maybe I'm wrong. I hope I am.


An Addendum: Not directly related, but along the same lines as the above; I recently had a conversation with my youngest son about a variety of things to do with young adults and their attitudes about sexist behaviour. In his opinion, he thinks sexism in young people is prevalent and, if not getting worse, not getting any better either. His girlfriend has a job working among a fair number of men and it's anything but a comfortable environment. Taunting, accidental bumping and sexual innuendo disguised as jokes is still alive and well.

I don't think I'll ever understand it. Don't these men have wives, mothers, sisters and girlfriends? Would they want their own loved ones treated with such disrespect? I remain saddened and dismayed.

Don't Go Away

(This blog was prompted by reading Wenda's post today.)

It seems that we (the royal we of the "bloggers-who-like-to-write" variety) all have moments of self-doubt about the validity of our endeavours. Many of my favourite bloggers have gone through periods of: Is this interesting; is this boring; is this just too stupid to post, am I wasting my time, and who cares anyway? Sometimes, they delete their blog. Sometimes, they say good-bye and tell you why. Sometimes, they just stop posting.

I'm a nosy and curious person – always have been – probably borne of living in multiple families and households at a young age. I learned to be a good listener; and by way of listening, learned a lot about human nature and about how people tick. It's stood me in good stead in the things I've done in my life. I've found that blogs are the closest thing to eavesdropping and getting inside the hearts and minds of thousands of people you'd never get to meet in the flesh. I love it.

Trouble is, I get attached to certain blogs and the personalities attached to them. So when a favourite blogger stops or just fades away with fewer and fewer posts, I want to say, "Don't go! I'm interested in what you have to say. I like hearing your thoughts. I want to know about your favourite books and restaurants; what pissed you off; made you happy; frustrated you; brought you to tears of joy or sorrow. I want to keep reading your perfect torrent of words and luscious imagery. Please come back."

I know it's unrealistic to expect people to blog indefinitely. Maybe their interests change; or they've said all they want to say; or it's no longer fun; or any number of other equally valid reasons – but doggone it, I'll still miss them when they're gone.

For those of you on the cusp of self-doubt, wondering if it's worthwhile: Don't quit just because you think no one is interested. You'd be surprised. Write because you want to; because you have something you need to say; because it makes you happy or fullfilled or connected or just because . . .

I've thought about no longer blogging. One day, it'll happen. Maybe I'll write a good-bye blog; maybe I'll fade away; maybe I'll just delete the whole darn thing, leaving nothing but a broken link or forward to a site of pomegranate recipes. Till then, I'll keep posting my hodgepodge of words and keep reading others' blogs

Why Lydia?

For some reason, when I write flash fiction, Lydia jumps herself onto the page. I'm not even sure how I came up with the name. I finally did an internet search and found that Lydia was a kingdom in an area of what is now modern day Turkey -- not the name of a person at all. The closest thing to a person is Lydia of the "tattooed lady" fame. I'm pretty sure I didn't have that Lydia in mind, but she must be buried somewhere in my subconscious because she keeps popping into my stories, unbidden. My guess is that she's somehow become my alter ego.

At first, I wasn't going to bring Lydia to this blog, but what the heck; she seems an integral part of me whether I like it or not, so here's a bit of an experiment for me.

Please meet my friend, Lydia: (A version of this first piece was on First Drafts last year, so if it sounds familiar to some of you, not to worry):

When Lydia awoke, she was filled with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Janie was coming – arriving on Air Canada 601 at 12:55 from Calgary.

They’d known each other since junior high – inseparable despite radically different personalities. Janie was a wild child – extroverted and opinionated; Lydia - quiet and prone to introspection. They were the unlikeliest of friends. From the outside, the only thing they had in common were their green eyes. What others didn’t realize was that they complemented and balanced each other. They could confide the deepest, most intimate secrets to each other and never fear ridicule or humiliation.

Their lives, not surprisingly, had taken different paths. Janie had moved to Toronto for university and Lydia had stayed in Vancouver. Not that they hadn’t tried keeping in touch. The first year, they wrote each other every month, then it gradually tapered off to a couple of times a year, then only a few lines on a Christmas card. They completely lost touch after each had moved several times in the intervening years.

Lydia had married her high school, football captain sweetheart. She’d started dating Jeff in grade ten after he gave her a ride home from a fundraiser jointly held by the football jocks and the choir. They were another unlikely pair. After the wedding, Jeff went on to dental school while she worked as a teacher’s aide. When Jeff graduated, he set up his dental practice and they moved into a two-level, three bedroom Tudor, complete with picket fence in the upscale suburb of Kerrisdale. Shortly afterwards they had two children – a boy and a girl. How corny was that?

Janie, on the other hand, had lived the bohemian lifestyle of a student while getting a degree in Fine Arts. At some point, she decided her degree wouldn’t get her a job that would pay enough to finance her love of art, travel and clothes. She went back to school and got a degree in business admin and marketing. Straight out of the U of Toronto, she got a job at a high-powered marketing firm in downtown TO. For four years, she climbed the corporate ladder - travel plans put on hold – as she lived the executive high life of expense accounts, fine dining and hobnobbing with Toronto society. It seemed she was being groomed for a shot at the firm’s partnership. That is, until she met, and shortly thereafter, married the CEO of one of their clients. She quit her job and settled into a four bedroom executive home in Oakville. When Lydia heard that Janie had settled in suburbia, she couldn’t believe it. No way would the old Janie she knew want a house, kids and “suburban hell” (as she would have not so delicately put it). Janie had assured her it was what she wanted.

Anyways, they hadn’t seen, spoken or heard from each other in fifteen years. It was only by a fortuitous coincidence, they connected again on the internet. They’d both started blogs - Lydia, calling herself, Deeyah - and Janie, calling herself Jane. Independently following links and comments on various blogs, they recognized similar references to their high school. It was Janie, who first asked, “what year did you graduate?” It didn’t take more than a few emails to fill in the rest.

They corresponded and chatted back and forth for several months, catching up on their lives. Both were divorced – Janie twice. Lydia had remained in and around Vancouver, while Janie had moved from Toronto to Montreal to New York, back to Toronto, then to Calgary, where she now lived. Both had two children – all of them grown, moved out and independent.

Today, they'd see each other again. What if they didn’t like each other anymore? What if they had nothing in common? What if this meeting was a big mistake? What if, what if, what if . . . . They’d both find out soon enough.

Waiting in the baggage claims area, Lydia scanned the arriving passengers. Janie said she’d be wearing a camel, mid-calf-length coat and a red scarf. Who knew if they’d recognize each other through the extra pounds, lines and years? Best to have something identifiable to avoid any embarrassing hugs with complete strangers. Lydia was wearing the West Coast uniform of jeans, T-shirt and jean jacket.

Lydia spotted the red scarf first, then the unmistakable long-loped stride of her friend. Peering through the screen of people in front of her, it took Janie awhile longer to respond to Lydia’s frantic waving; but with a flash of recognition and the familiar gap-toothed Lauren Hutton grin, she strode straight over to engulf Lydia in a bear hug. They stood back, looked at each other and laughed. All the years melted away; the extra pounds didn’t matter; the extra lines didn’t matter; only the eyes mattered – they were exactly the same.

Age is just an illusion

Age is a state of mind, so I’m told. I feel like I'm anything from thirty-something to been-around-forever. Mostly, I don't think about my age until my body doesn't work the way it used to or some young thing looks at me blankly when I mention something that, to me, happened only yesterday.

My mind says I’m a smooth-skinned, long-legged babe
Turning heads when stars align.
Vibrant, fun and full of life.
Sometimes silly, giddy, weird.

Blank stares tell me otherwise.
Invisible to all except fellow invisibles
And those who love me now or
Knew me when-then.

Amazing how well grey hair
Works as an invisibility cloak.

An homage to my favourite bloggers

I often feel in awe of the wonderful bloggers out there. The clarity, honesty and excellence of their words make me feel totally inadequate. I think, how did she do that; how did she make me laugh so hard, cry, get angry, rethink my position?

So here are just a few thoughts about some of my favourite blog writers. I won’t name names, so you can all imagine that I’m talking about you – because I am:

- A's individual blogs are precise photo captions. You wonder how she can capture the essence of how you feel in her words. Each picture-phrase is a vivid snapshot. It’s like watching a kaleidoscopic slideshow, never knowing what’s coming next, but with the assurance that it’s going to be insightful or funny – and definitely wonderful.


- B's words flow in an unending stream of colourful descriptors and run-on sentences. The funny thing is that her run-on sentences don’t seem run-on at all. Phrases and descriptions ripple along, sometimes gently, sometimes caught in an eddy of overlapping ideas as if deciding whether to pool and expand there, eventually overflowing and pushed on by the relentless pressure of new ideas. Sometimes the stream is more like a torrent - words tumbling over each other, burbling and bubbling, rushing to some invisible gush of an ending. Her writing makes me smile.


- C's writing is self-assured. The ideas complex, yet clear. No shilly-shallying about where she stands on issues. It’s easy to heed her rally cry. She’s smart enough not to take herself too seriously.


- D is both ingenious and ingenuous. You never know what you’re going to get - staccato angry delivery or heartfelt musings. I sometimes imagine meeting her in person and know she’ll be exactly as she portrays herself in her words.


- The warm, earnest sharing of E's journey through life makes me feel a bit like a voyeur. The honesty is startling and inspiring at the same time.


- F's stories about her family are gentle, whimsical and funny. Reading her blogs, make me feel like I’m sitting at her kitchen table having a chat over a cup of coffee.


- G comes across as someone you’d never like to get angry. His words are sharp, big-city, no-holds-barred scathing rants at the less than worthy. Not necessarily someone I’d like to meet, but his writing is brilliant.

Father's Hands

Writing prompt from First Drafts

My father used to hold my hand.

Don't believe me? I can prove it. I have a picture. See, here. I'm wearing my red velvet, special holiday dress. I'm smiling, so is he, my right hand in his left. He's quite handsome, don't you think? I used to think I was ugly, but looking at the picture now, I can see why people said I was a cute kid.

I don't remember when it was taken. It looks like at an office Christmas party or something. See the door and window? Looks like Christmas cards on the ledge. We're all dressed up, so it must have been a special occasion. Funny, I remember the dress, but not the occasion.

It's the only one I have of me and him, at least from childhood. We didn't spend much time together back then. But maybe I'm remembering it all wrong. I didn't remember the picture-taking, did I? Maybe we did lots of things together and I just don't remember.

Anyways, I'm glad I have this picture.

Lost files

I need to get more organized, I need to get more organized – so goes my mantra.

But really, I do. Not in the general sense of housekeeping and tidying (though that needs addressing too), but specifically with my document files. Several blogs ago, I alluded to having bits and pieces of writing in various files on my hard drive. At the time, I had no idea the state of disarray, bordering on chaos, these files were in -- until I tried to find something I wanted to resurrect.

I had one of those middle-of-the-night, astoundingly, brilliant ideas to add onto one of my older pieces. I jotted it down on an index card. First thing in the morning, I eagerly went to my computer to add this particularly illuminating insight to, to, to . . . What did I name that file? Do you think I could find it? Nope. I searched in all the usual places, but no luck. Maybe it was just an imaginary file, one I thought up while brushing my teeth, but never got around to actually committing to bits and bytes.

I have a habit of opening up Word, writing a paragraph or paragraphs, page or pages, depending on mood, ideas or lack of ideas, and then saving it with a title I think will be a memory prompt for when I want to get back to it. Sometimes I'm in a hurry when I do this, so the titles are often the first thing that comes to mind. Not a good idea.

Okay, so here's my dilemma. I used to have all my writing – everything from reviews, to opinion pieces, to rants, to creative fiction, to personal journal entries, to notes and quotes in one main folder titled, "writing". Makes sense, particularly when it's just a hobby. Within that folder, I have subfolders titled, Family, 300words, L's story, Shared Writing, Rants, technical notes, and a catch-all called Old Stuff.

But then, I started to branch out a bit with my writing. I created another folder to hold my articles to a now defunct online magazine. In that folder, I also have files of works-in-progress, ideas and notes. I added yet another folder for book reviews I wrote for my personal website (now languishing in obscurity and neglect), and yet another for what I call Notes, Quotes and Lists.

And now, here's where I really got into trouble – I started blogging.

I opened another folder called Blogger, because that's what I'm using to blog. I have sub-folders for Blog-Posts and First Drafts (a group writing blog). Everything else –including ideas and works-in-progress - is just a mess of docs rattling around in the bigger folder. In just a few months, the number of my files has exploded.

Not that I'm such a prolific blogger but because, besides the bits that actually end up as blogs, I keep coming up with ideas that might be bloggable. I end up saving them in separate files that range from just a few sentences to a few paragraphs. As you might gather, these bloggable bits also fall under general writing. So where do they go? Sometimes I leave them in the Blogger folder and sometimes I put them elsewhere, like Family or Rants or . . . well, you get the idea. I'm not very consistent.

Now, it wouldn't be so bad if my memory was a fraction of what it once was. Unfortunately, all those years of effective multi-tasking don't translate to good short-term memory at my current age.

I was reading on someone else's blog – was it Wenda's(?) – where she's organized all her writing in categories. I've heard that real writers do this. Do you think if I get more organized and categorize by subject matter, I can start calling myself a writer with a bit more confidence? At least it'll sound good. Need an article about walking on the seawall? No problem, it's right here under "Outdoor Recreation". It's definitely something I should look into.

So this is where I came in. I still can't find that darn file. Guess I'll just have to open a new Word document and start from scratch.

Brain rattles

Sometimes I feel I have so many things rattling around in my head that everyone around me can hear it. Stuff just clunking and thunking around like bumper cars, one thought setting off a chain reaction of others, back and forth till they hit some invisible barrier and then come bouncing back again. Occasionally a thought will jump the barrier and demand recognition. I'm always a little amazed at this.

When I was young I'd play a little game of trying to track back my thought processes. Like - how did I end up thinking about bumper cars when on my way to the library? Let's see . . . I was thinking about whether or not to renew the latest Sue Barton Nurse book; then I thought about being a nurse; then I thought about sick people; then I thought about puking - makes me gag thinking about it; then I thought about the last time I was at the PNE and rode the Tilt-A-Whirl; then I thought about the Roller Coaster; scary, but not that bad; Bob didn't think I'd do it; then I thought about how I'm always too chicken to ride the bumper cars!!

Okay, so this brain rattling idea came to me when I was brushing my teeth: I'm looking at myself in the mirror brushing my teeth, rather boring; been there, done that; ho-hum; let's just get it over with; how many minutes optimum?; who the hell remembers?; Dr Roberts would; what's up for tomorrow?; don't think about it; what will be will be, Que sera sera, what will be will be, the futures not ours to see . . . hum, hum; Doris Day; Rock Hudson; too bad he couldn't come out; sad really; everyone already knew, so what was the point; so glad Matt came out; he's always been into music; maybe he'll get a contract with a major label; should ask Linda for his latest CD; so hard to get discovered; funny how all D's friends are into music; their jamming sounds pretty good, need someone for vocals; I know it's not what he wants to do; well he would, but if he got famous, he'd hate it; what IS he going to do; he's been with M. for five years; she's so nice, I think I'd be more upset than him if they broke up, can't see them getting married, though . . . Now, how the heck did I start thinking about marriage? Geez! . . . .

Then, I thought, I really have too much stuff rattling around my head; and maybe I should blog about it.

I'm not sure if others think like this – I've never been brave enough to ask. Maybe I'm just weird.

Blogger or writer

I write, but am I a writer? I've been mucking around with this question for quite some time. Then, being the good blogger I am - I decided to blog about it. Or is that write about it?

Anyone who knows me can tell you what I did next. – Yep – I Googled it – using the search terms "can I call myself a writer". There were 19,700,000 hits. That's right, over nineteen million. Since this topic has been so thoroughly covered, it seems a bit redundant to go over all the same stuff, so I'll just touch on a few thoughts about my own writing.

I like to write – well, sort of – in a masochistic, therapeutic, self-purging kind of way. Maybe 'like' isn't the right word. Sometimes it's an excruciating, paper-cut-bathed-in-vinegar, wrench-it-from-my gut process; and sometimes it's an intense, pounding-on-the-keyboard-'til-it-smokes race to the last paragraph, sentence and period. Occasionally, the words and ideas flow – the metaphors make sense and precise words conveying exactly what I mean pop into my head without the aid of a thesaurus. The latter doesn't happen all that often – at least for me. Maybe it's because I've been only dabbling at this writing thing on and off and not taking it very seriously; maybe it's because I'm just not very good at it. Whatever the reason, it's not always easy.

So why do it? Because I wake up in the middle of the night with an idea that I'm afraid I'll forget if I don't write it down; because when I haven't written anything for awhile, ideas and topics keep surfacing that beg me to write about them; because it's a way for me to think out loud and analyze my thoughts in critical black and white; because, one day, I'd like my children to read my deepest, inner thoughts; and because I need to get the words and thoughts out or I'll explode. -- So, I write.

Mainly, it's a hobby. Would I like to be published? You bet. I have this fantasy that I'll become the oldest newly published author in Canada – but I'm not holding my breath. Meanwhile, I'll just keep on blogging, doing little writing exercises, journaling, and filing away all my little bits and pieces that I write between midnight and 3 a.m.

Does any of this allow me to call myself a writer? I still don't know. Writer sounds too presumptuous, too professional, too Stephen King, Amy Tan, Kazuo Ishiguro.

Maybe I'm just someone who needs to get the words out and it's why I find blogging so appealing. There are no constraints, no deadlines and almost anything goes.

I think Woody Cavenaugh expressed my confusion most succinctly, "Am I a blogger who writes, or a writer who blogs, or a writer of blogs."

And so ends, another ramble.