August 22 was my three year blog-birthday. Whoo. I was so excited that I totally forgot. Never even crossed my mind.- cause, hey, I have nothing else to think about except meaningless personal statistics, right? Don’t get me wrong- I like it when I see a spike in my traffic as much as the next blogger, but I just don’t check all that often. Blog traffic statistics are kinda like a new baby’s poopy diaper- only interesting to the mama.
Words. Words are why I write. Is that why others write? I have no idea. But the synergy and poetry that sparks when words are properly combined, creating something more than the sum of the parts- it’s as beautiful as a newborn baby. It doesn’t escape me how clumsy that sentence is, or the irony of being ham-fisted in the handling of the butterfly that is writing. Oh well. Today, that’s all I’ve got.
Virginia Woolf said “A woman must have money and a room of her own to write…” Maybe that’s why she wrote novels and fiction for the ages, and I bang out… whatever it is I bang out. I have neither.
As I write, Beanie is climbing the bookcase to my left, complaining Jeff is eating all the remaining English muffins. Abby is giggling and chasing a balloon with a hole that is haphazardly bouncing around the dining room, and Jeff is watching the toaster. I’ve stopped to change a diaper, wipe a nose, blow up the balloon three times, calm Bean down and reassure him one muffin is earmarked for him and he CAN have it crunchy even if Jeff likes his floppy, admired a new Lego spaceship, and given two hugs. Jeffrey is now on a time-out for trying to hog all the muffins.
Virginia Woolf didn’t have children, did she?