There are days when I can’t bring myself to write. Which is strange because, for the most part, I need writing, like I need air or sleep or the expensive towels. Basically, it’s rather important to me and my mental health. So, it surprises me when for weeks and sometimes months, at a time, I can hardly produce a single sentence.
Maybe it's because I am back to work. I love my class but working for a living can be a drag, can't it? What did Oscar Wilde say again?
Work is the curse of the drinking classes
I'm a selfish writer. I know that. I write what I want, when I want and share only what suits me. It’s my blog, after all. Even though, there are those that feel it’s a direct line for their complaints.
I suppose you have every right to have an opinion about what I write since I insist on sharing publicly. Many of you share with me your almost entirely constructive criticisms. I think they make me a better writer, don’t you?
What the hell is she going on about now? (RaisingaPrince)
She swears too fucking much. (Patriots12)
Why should we care about autism? Isn’t there a vaccine for that? (MrSmith)
And my personal favorite:
There is not enough vomit in the world. (BeerMan)
But it’s not the negative attention that slows me down, or the lack of remuneration. After all, I get paid small amounts of American dollars for writing listicles each week but have never brought in a penny for writing here, on this blog. I can bang out ‘17 Reasons Cake is a Breakfast Food’ in my sleep but to tell you anything else seems nearly impossible at the moment.
So, why am I stuck? Why am I sitting here writing about not writing?
I have no idea, which is strange because according to Anonymous1967:
This asshole is a friendless know-it-all who could fill a book with her specific brand of bull-shit.
Anyway, guess I wanted to tell you that we are still here.
I’m not done sharing our story.
Grace and Kate's mom. (Shanell)