It’s november, so I’m going to try posting again. Here are some things Molly, age 25 months, has said lately. This kid kills me.
“I’m so disappointed.”
(sotto voce, to her brother) “I don’t really need to take a nap.”
“Where’s my headache?!”
“Meez-Meez is going to EAT ME!” (Meez-Meez = Pingu, the claymation Nordic Penguin)
“The only thing that makes one an artist is making art. And that requires the precise opposite of hanging out; a deeply lonely and unglamorous task of tolerating oneself long enough to push something out.”
― David Rakoff, Half Empty
Writers require solitude. Mothers may find it to be in short supply.
Friends, neighbors, countrymen: It’s time for an official Supafine hiatus.Possibly (and probably) a sunset, though I hate to say goodbye — so I’ll just say so long.
I want to thank you all for reading me for nine years. In fact, I don’t know how to appropriately thank you guys for such a weird thing: reading my words, understanding me, becoming, in some instances, a real friend. Leaving thoughts of your own in the comments. Some of you just came here for the free sewing tutorials, and that’s OK, too.
There may come a time or a medium in the future when I can write freely again, but that time is not now. I have a facebook account that is mostly private, and a twitter account that is totally and embarrassingly public. Please feel free to follow me there, or just give me a sad hug and a mock salute and we’ll each let a single tear track down our cheeks.
It’s been very lovely working with all of you.
Thanks to a painful stretch of sleep deprivation and then a stretch of not giving a shit, I hereby declare this Nablopomo a bust. AGAIN. I like traditions.
It had devolved into What I’m Cooking For Dinner and I just — I was boring even myself, and I usually think I am way more interesting than I actually am. So.
Here it is, the blog, and here it is, my perpetual writer’s block. I started a pseudonym twitter account to deal with my audience issues but I can’t even think of anything to write in there. I wonder sometimes how creative I could be if I weren’t wiping counters, noses and butts all day, but then I think back to college, when all I did was sleep and smoke, and I wasn’t very creative then, either, so, guess I’m just born this way. An urge to say something, but nothing to say.
I just felt like I shouldn’t leave y’all hanging (HA HA HA “y’all” when I guess I really mean “my mom”) so. Here it is, a wrap-up post.
Too busy grimacing through the kind of headache that makes you want to garrote people.
Because I am too busy being a ONE WOMAN MISTAKE FACTORY! BOOYA. Take that, people who hate mistakes.
Hey look, I know some people think airheads have it so easy. Well, let me be the first to correct that assumption. We flakes, ditzes and space cadets may appear to be just floating through life without a care in the world, but we really …
Where was I going with this? Hmm. Hey listen, I’m going to the kitchen, do you want anything?
Pardon me, I appear to have run out of excuses. The laundry is running, the floors are swept, the baby is sleeping and the preschooler is making art up in his room. Guess I can spit a little something out here.
I was thinking the other day that another reason I can’t write is because I can’t tell stories. All writing, fiction or not, is about telling stories. It’s about what happened, why it happened, what is going to happen. Term papers, science journals, newspapers, romance novels, cereal boxes, all of it is telling a story. And I suck at telling stories.
I once took a fiction writing class in college. Oh, what a waste of money. I mean, I read some great short fiction by real actual writers in real actual anthologies, but whatever the prof was trying to pound through my head about Plot and Conflict and Setting just went whizzing past my left ear instead. I remember writing a horrible little piece about a girl (ME) who worked at a grocery store (MY JOB AT THE TIME) and dated a boy who also worked at the grocery store (MY BOYFRIEND AT THE TIME). Nothing happened in the story unless stilted dialogue counts as “happening.” It was embarrassing to turn in. I am glad that it wasn’t one of the ones that went to critique — or if it was, I am glad my brain mercifully blocked it out. The professor got paid to read that tripe but hardworking students shouldn’t have to burn their eyeballs on it.
When I discovered blogging about four or five years later, I was super excited. Hooray, I thought. Writing that doesn’t have to have a plot, a thesis sentence or even much of a point. Perfect.
Too busy meal planning, list-making, grocery-shopping.
Too busy catching up on The Walking Dead.