Discipline. Whoopee.

I haven't had much to say here lately. Truth is, the reality of writing a book is much different than the idea of it. No surprise there, you say? Probably true. However, now that I am definitely on my way (48 pages, yahoo!!) I am realizing that the nuts and bolts of the thing is way bigger than I thought. Writing is a discipline. It doesn't matter if I feel inspired, or creative, or even remotely into it, I write because this is now my job. My gracious husband is giving me a year (or rather, that's what I said I need and he said 'okay') to get this book written, revised and ready for its future life (whether that's publication or the circular file) and so I am taking it seriously and writing every day. Except on the weekends when life with the family takes priority, but even then I spend a little time each day either re-reading or researching or reading one of my many 'how to be a writer' books.

Which brings me to another point. This is a mental game to be sure. I read a book by Sol Stein, a brilliant author and editor. He had some great stuff in there that is really going to help me in my journey. However, after I read it and I sat down to write, all that information came barreling through my brain and I found myself trying to edit as I wrote. Is that dialogue true? Are the characters interesting enough? What point of view for this scene? And whammo!!! My mojo was gone. For days I moped around singing the blues. I can't do this! Who do I think I am! All the familiar demons made an appearance and I listened.

Then I sat with a friend and talked and she gave me a smack and got me back on track.

Thanks, friend. I needed that.

So, my point is that I am learning about the discipline of writing as a job. And, just like any job, it has it's good days and bad days, lessons have to be learned and stuff has to be done that I don't want to do.

So maybe my next post will be about something fun, instead of writing about writing.

Maybe I'll write about the awesome turkey soup I made yesterday, or the gorgeous leaves of fall I found on a walk.

Stay tuned.

Tapping Away

Well things are going pretty good over here in book land. I'm getting in to my groove, hitting my stride, making progress. Twenty one pages so far. When I look back on the last couple of weeks I am happy to see that I am getting consistent in writing every day. And if I don't write, I at least re-read what I wrote and do a bit of research. So, that's all good.

I must say, however, that every single time I sit to write 'Book' I struggle. Fear, doubt, insecurity....all my familiar friends come knocking on the door. It's a battle every time I sit down at the computer. But what I'm finding is every time I fight that fight, and choose to turn down the volume on those voices, my true self comes through and makes an appearance. I guess it's like working out. The more I exercise my will, the stronger I believe the truth.

Yesterday was a great day. I had lunch with a creative friend of mine and I dared to read over a few parts of the book to get feedback. Considering it's still a crappy first draft, that's always a challenge. But she graciously listened, and encouraged, and gave great feedback. She brainstormed with me about plot developments, and my characters, and how they could feel more true. And I came away with so much inspiration and fresh ideas I was floating!

So my lesson for this week? Take risks. Nothing new there, but actually new for me in the area of writing. The more I risk; whether it's sharing my work, or believing in myself, or writing about things I may not be entirely comfortable with; I stretch my creative muscles and grow just a bit each time.

And then the next time those voices show up, they're not quite as loud as before.

A Day of Firsts

That elusive 'first'. First book, first line, first page.....

Why is the first line always so hard to write? The intimidating blank screen (or page), the cold sweat that begins at the thought of starting something new. Will it be good enough? Is it right?

As Walter Mosley says in his book 'This Year You Write Your Novel', "probably the highest hurdle for the novice novelist (and many seasoned veterans) is writing the first few words. That beginning is a very emotional moment for most of us."

I can attest to this. The very act of writing that first line is a doozy. And one that I have been procrastinating about (see previous post). Mosley also says "procrastination is an author's worst enemy, but there are others: the writer who suddenly has chores that have gone undone for months but that now seem urgent; the diarist who develops a keen wish to write about her experiences today instead of writing her book; the Good Samaritan who realizes that there's a world out there that needs saving; the jack-of-all-trades who, when he begins one project, imagines ten others that are equally or even more important. Forget all that. Don't write in the journal unless you're writing a chapter of your book. Save the world at 8:30 instead of 7:00. Let the lawn get shaggy and the paint peel from the walls."

So, with that in mind, I sat down, took a deep breath, and.....did it. I wrote the first line. And the second. And....before I knew it I had two glorious pages finished. This was indeed an emotional moment for me. All the years of preparing, planning and dreaming culminated in one moment to propel me towards the goal. I felt a rush of excitement and positivity.

Now the third page doesn't seem so scary.

Research!

I have been doing research for about a month now in preparation for writing the book. I love research! This is something new I've learned about myself in the past few years. When I started my interior design business I began poring over magazines, websites etc. and really enjoyed digging up facts and knowledge, whether it was finding out what a 'ghost' chair is or learning about the latest lighting fixtures, I was all over it. Then I planned a few trips. New York, San Diego, Montreal....and our biggest one to date, a home exchange in England. I literally had our dinner reservations booked before we left.

So, I knew that there were elements of my story that needed research. Locations, events, people.

I have really enjoyed digging in to these things, making notes, causing my characters to begin to come to life in my mind.

The question is; when do I stop? I could probably research forever and a day, and be perfectly happy. Well, almost. But at some point this must stop and the actual writing must begin. Am I procrastinating? Possibly, since that is a strong character trait of mine. Am I nervous to move away from something I enjoy and comes naturally, to something I enjoy (when I feel inspired) and doesn't always come naturally? You bet I am!

The dilemma continues......(but if you are ever curious about remote beaches of New Jersey, I'm your gal).

Deep Breath, And.....

Well, this is it. My big leap of faith.

I have been writing since I was a child. I used to sit in the basement with my older sister and my cousin on summer holidays and we would write stories together. For hours. I remember the stories we wrote always had to have a tragic element to them; girl goes blind, boy dies, girl gets diptheria, etc. Even back then I had a dark side.

As I grew up I continued to write, but mostly poems, short stories or 'dear diary' type stuff.

I always viewed it as a hobby.

Then I had my kids and it become an outlet for my emotions, feelings and passions. Lots of letters to the editor, newspaper columns and rantings. My opinions were becoming known....to me, at least. My voice was still soft, and quiet, and hidden, for the most part.

About six years ago I took some writing courses. I found great inspiration, guidance, and encouragement among the teachers and students. Out of one of those classes, three other keeners and myself formed a writers group that met every week, for about four years. We came with poems, stories, rantings, ramblings and other varied and weird writings. We supported and critiqued and cheered each other on.

Through all of these years, my hearts desire was to write a novel. A book. I rarely, if ever, spoke this dream to anyone, for fear of being laughed at and generally looked at like I was a loon. This dream stayed tucked away in my heart for only me to gaze on with longing.

However, about two years ago, the dream began knocking on the door of my life. It became harder and harder to ignore. I began to entertain thoughts of actually doing it, of writing a book. I began to pray.

A year later, the knocking became more urgent and I knew it was a path I was to walk. Then the fear came. Fear of failure, fear of sucking, fear of what people would think of me. Who was I to do this thing?

With the help of some good friends and lots of prayer, the fear faded. I realized that this was something I needed to do, for me. And that if nothing ever came of it; if all it ever did was sit on MY shelf, that was enough. The journey was in the doing and not the end result.

Once I had reconciled this in my heart, things began to happen. I started to mull over storylines and plot elements.

A year later (yes, one whole year) I had it. The story. Things were solidifying. It was time to DO.

Yikes.

So here I am, at the threshold of a dream. I have been doing this mostly in secret, save for a few trusted people. And yet, today, I had the distinct impression that my journey is not to be done in secret. It is something to share. Why? I'm not exactly sure, except that I think there are others out there with dreams; big dreams, crazy dreams; who are scared to start acting on them. Maybe if I take the big scary step of putting myself and my dream out there, others can take heart, and courage, and a bit of faith, and do the same.

And, I think it might be neat to document the journey. If not for anyone else, then just for me.

So, here goes. Gulp.

Strange Paradox

I have been rummaging through a file of my writings and found a bunch of poetry. Thought I would share a couple here. This one was published somewhere but for the life of me I can't remember where! haha shows you my organizational skills right there.

Strange Paradox

strange paradox

one minute peaceful

then raging

one moment calm

then screaming

why must I be

these two

when I only want one

night takes over dawn

and drowns it with black

thoughts words fears

spiraling down ever darker

light seeps in

and floods the sky

blinding my soul

hope joy strength

sustaining Life in me

the dark is always waiting

I will cling to the Light

Cabin Fever

The dock was bathed in sunlight, broken only by dappled shadows from the cedars perched on the hillside above. The water, clean and clear, was an invitation to our overheated selves as we tumbled out of the car. This was our end of summer respite, our last mad grab at freedom and heat and lake before reality crashed in on us. School was looming for the kids, and a busy fall schedule of work for my husband and I. Spontaneity was the rule of the day, so we found a little cabin left all alone, and descended upon it with glee and hopeful hearts.

It felt good to be spontaneous; to allow the almighty schedule to fall away; to break the back of appointments and obligations, and simply to Go. Throw the last of the clean clothes in a bag, grab whatever food lies in the fridge, get the dog, and Go.

And so we arrived at a wee cabin called 'The Whitehouse.' Funny name for this place. It is, indeed, white, but that is where the comparison ends. It is old, and tiny, and musty. The kitchen is just big enough for one. The television has one channel and....wait for it....a VCR player. (My kids gasped in horror at the absence of a DVD player and 500 channels!)

There is one teeny bedroom on the main floor, but...go outside, down a set of stairs, down another set of stairs, unlock a door, and voila! The promised extra two bedrooms. The teenagers were delighted at the idea of having their very own 'suite', however my ten year old took one look at the separate entrance and the long walk up to the parents, and promptly set up camp outside our bedroom.

Okay. The Whitehouse is rustic. And tiny. And...buggy (much to my chagrin. Why do I think a woodsy cabin would be anything else?) And hot. We, of the spoiled air-conditioned generation, languished in the hot, airless tomb of a place at night, to the point where my husband and I trudged our 3/4 size mattress (?) onto the deck to sleep, in hopes of a wiff of a breeze. Yup, we got a breeze. We also got...crickets. All night long. I love crickets as the sun is setting, and the day is ending. It's a beautiful bedtime lullaby that gets me all sleepy and peaceful. But crickets all night....nonstop...right beside our bed....no thanks. There is not a sleeping pill in the world large enough to counteract those singing demons of the night.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny in a beautiful cloudless sky. We rose, stiff from the crappy mattresses, stretched, and watched the lake come to life. Perfectly still and glassy, a crane sailed impossibly close to the water, its feet occasionally touching the surface to cast ripples in its wake. The peace was broken only by the occasional splash of a fish finning, or a chipmunk chattering in the branches of a cedar nearby.

We took steaming mugs of coffee and ventured onto the dock with lawn chairs and sat, reveling in the beauty of the morning. Our bodies and minds began to let go. Let go of agendas, and schedules, and to-do lists. The rhythm of the water against the dock rocked us in a cradle of peace. Our day stretched ahead of us..long ,and quiet. It was enough.

Funny, that. It is enough to have a bare-bones cabin with a tiny kitchen. It is enough to sit in a deck chair and watch the sunrise. It is enough to simply be with each other.

Why is this not enough in regular life? With my gourmet kitchen, king size bed and air conditioning? Why is it not enough to simply be, to breathe, to notice the beauty in my presence?

Okay. Obviously I would not want to live in this cabin all year long. What is quaint and fun for a week would quickly become cramped and frustrating. However I do think that I can take the peace I felt sitting on that dock and bring it home with me. And in spite of the busyness of my regular life, I can remember to sit, to breathe, to watch. It reminds me to watch a sunrise once in a while. To revel in the quiet of a morning, or the thrum of a hawks' wing as it soars overhead. To bring a bit of cabin life into every day.

Except maybe the bugs.

Summer Break??

Summer is in full swing around here. It's hot, just like a Kelowna summer should be. The garden is up and running and pumping out radishes at light speed. My ten year old son, Hunter, loves to find the best and biggest radish of the day, pop it in his mouth, roll it around in there, spit out the dirt, and chomp away. The carrots are still the size of toothpicks, but hey, a little anticipation is good for us. We are sliding in to our summer routine, which is basically...no routine. Every June, I determine that this will be the year that I am on top of things during the break. I will get up early three days a week and exercise. I will make a chore chart for the kids to follow. The house will sparkle with the care and attention it is receiving. We will take weekly jaunts to places yet unseen, hike the trails behind our house, and I will ride my new bicycle every day and ride my old horse twice a week. Oh and I will also write one hour every day. All this should be easy, because I am not working this summer, and I need things to do!
The reality is a bit different. We sleep in, skip breakfast, swim in the pool, have lunch, do a few errands, barbecue something yummy for dinner, swim, read and sleep again. What happened?! What is it about summer, this short Canadian season we all look forward to for ten months, that wreaks havoc with all my good intentions and plans ?
I think I am learning something here (maybe). Perhaps this is the season to allow our plans to fly out the kitchen window along with the cherry pits my kids love to launch out there. I think there is a beauty in letting the days slide into each other. In foregoing the gym for a swim. Letting the house get a little grungy. Maybe this year I can let go, and be okay with my non-schedule for a little while.
I do want to write, and I think about writing every day, so I intend to get cracking in that regard. And I fully intend to read every book in the large stack by my bed. And bike. And ride. And....oh, forget it.
Me and the fam are going camping next week....in a motorhome....to Oregon. I'm sure I will have lots to write about when I get back.
Stay tuned.

Shiny Happy People

We all want to be 'Shiny Happy People'. We want our lives to go well. We want to be happy. We want to have fun, to be carefree, to have no worries. Isn't this the Great (North) American Dream? To have enough money to sustain our lifestyle, with extra to pay for our toys, our trips, our dinners out. This, we say, is the life. Who could ask for anything more?
The flaw in this design, the fly in the ointment, isn't always clear. Sure, we are happy. Days slip away, one glorious self-indulgent day after the other, like so many grains of sand running through our fingers. Sure, we hit the occasional speed bump on our fast track to the good life. Sickness, divorce, a drinking problem, maybe a troubled child. These speed bumps jar us out of our slumber. We shake our heads, blink wildly and glance around, trying to get our bearings. Where are we? How did we get this far without really noticing? The speed bump acts as the proverbial smack on the back of the head, to shake us out of our complacency. And it works, for a little while. We hold our loved ones close. We are kind to our neighbour. We appreciate the beauty of our surroundings. We are thankful.
And then, slowly, quietly, we slip back into our self-absorbed snooze. Our focus shifts back onto ourselves and we blissfully allow it.
Genocide in Darfur? Hmm. Political unrest in Sri Lanka? Wow. Neighbour lost their job? Too bad.
What will it take to make us aware of our surroundings? and not just aware, but involved? Not just seeing, or hearing, but doing? What will it take to cause us as a people, a nation, to turn from our fat, spoiled, pampered selves to the dirty, gritty, sometimes smelly suffering that exists all around us? To ask ourselves, how can I? How can I help my neighbour, my country, my fellow man in pain? And then to do it?
We need to get our collective heads out of the sand. No more 'tut-tutting' about the plight of humanity. Let's educate ourselves, gain knowledge of those around us who are hurting, and then act in compassion. Have your jobless neighbour over for dinner. Volunteer at the food bank. Donate funds to one of the many organizations working tirelessly overseas.
We must get outside of ourselves. Once we take that first scary step that says 'there are more important things in this world than myself' we will be changed. We will be awake, and aware, and we will no longer be content to simply accumulate toys and plan our next trip.
The world will break our hearts, and our broken, bleeding, weeping hearts will in turn reach out to that world and change it.

What's So Great About Safe?

Lately I feel distracted by my life; the goings-on, the busy-ness, the 'other-ness' is distracting me from the niggling thoughts that are always just below the surface.
"Remember me?" my self says quietly. "I'm still here, waiting to be acknowledged."
And yet I allow myself to be distracted. I choose to ignore the deep waters of my soul that are churning uncomfortably below the surface of my mind. Am I too tired to listen? Too lazy to make the effort to look? Or too scared of what I might find there?
Mostly, when I take a moment to breathe, to be still, what I hear is my true self banging on the door of my heart.
"Let me in," it yells with all the indignation of a spurned lover. "You can't keep my locked out forever."
And yet, that is what I have done. I have locked my true self - my true nature - out of my heart and kept it tucked safely away in a secret place. Like an old relative who gets a room in the top of the house; slightly mad, unpredictable, with the tendency to say and do strange things; who only ventures out for the odd meal and spends the rest of the day muttering and yelling at anyone who dares to walk past the door.
I have not given myself much breathing room, I'm afraid. You see, I tend to be dangerous and unpredictable. I tend to say inappropriate things, at inappropriate times. I am selfish, and want to do things that please me, and only me. I like to speak my mind, dream big, read poetry, dance and laugh. I am ambitious and intend on fulfilling many of these ambitions. I want to try new things, go new places, meet new people. I want to look into the face of suffering and tell others what I see. I want to wear crazy hats and sit on park benches in the sun.
So, you see, if I let this person out - if I let her in, into my heart - well, she would take up residence and then....well, take over. She would set up shop and then all hell would break loose. Because my small, predictable, well-ordered life wouldn't work anymore. I would start disappointing people, letting them down. I would probably offend others with the things I would say, or puzzle them with the things I would do. I wouldn't fit in. I would dress different, look different. I might not always be there to oversee, to caretake, to guide. Plus, there's always a risk that I might actually.... feel something. My whole life has been structured so that I don't have to worry about that whole 'feeling' business. So if I let her take over, who knows what might happen? I might weep uncontrollably, or laugh hysterically, or scream in anger. And then what would I do?
It's really only logical to keep my true self locked up. It's too risky to let her in. My world is safe, and she definitely isn't safe.
On the other hand...what's so great about safe?

Where's the shut off valve for my brain?

It's spring and things are waking up. The trees are breaking out in their brand new leaves, the daffodils are waving to me from my front yard, and neighbours are poking their heads out from their front doors and joining the parade of new life that marches down the street. Unfortunately there is one thing that is still dead...my lawn. We haven't been able to turn on the irrigation yet, as we are waiting for a water pressure pump to be installed. You see, we live on a hill....with a verrry steep driveway....which means that we have a great view from our front porch, but it also means that we have zero water pressure. So, when we turn on our sprinklers, they spit a pathetically small amount of water onto the lawn, which in turn leaves us with big unsightly dead patches of grass that, by July, are crunchy and gross. This spring we finally caved in and ordered a water pressure system which should solve this problem. So this morning, James the Mighty Plumber arrived on our doorstep, tools in hand, to install said system. Yeah! However before he could begin we had to find the main shut off valve for the water to the house. Searching, searching....ah yes! That big metal thingy in the front yard! And down he went to turn it off.....not so simple. Apparently whoever installed it wanted to be really thorough and set it four feet under the ground. James digs. And digs. And finally finds the darn thing and shuts off the water. Sweet.
Which got me to thinking. Is there a shut off valve for my brain? Because lately I have been thinking a lot. Okay, I always think a lot. But lately I have been realizing how much I think. I live in my head a great deal. My thought life is intense, and complicated, and basically I am having a conversation with myself 24/7. Except for sleeping, but then I have these amazing complex dreams, so even then I don't get a break! A dear friend has been helping me learn how to find my shut off valve, even for a little while, so my heart has a chance to speak up. Because mostly, my heart can't get a word in edgewise with the ongoing monologue upstairs. And I am realizing that my heart has a lot to say. Important things, like how I might be feeling about all those things I am thinking about. And if I neglect my heart-speak, I find myself getting really tired, and frustrated, and distracted with all the brain-speak.
Breathe. Focus. Pause. Ask. Allow those heart matters to bubble up to the surface. Aaaah, that's better.
I am finding my shut off valve, a little bit every day. It's a good thing.

That Elusive Inspiration....and Passion

Writing is a process that I will surrender to without needing a result. The process of writing, the very act of putting pen to paper, is the very thing that will set my dreams in motion. I can't sit around waiting for inspiration to knock me over the head; I must just write regardless of what I write. The only way to get there is to start. I must stop needing it to look a certain way but simply honor the process and the fact that I must write, I can't not write. And I will write about whatever comes at the time, not waiting for a big idea. The big idea is that there isn't one! I live inside my head too much, as a loving friend often tells me. Writing helps to get out of my head and connect to my feelings.
So, what am I feeling? I feel good after running today. My body is slightly tingly like there is a soft electrical current running through it. I feel a bit uneasy in my heart. I miss the romance of my younger years. Those butterflies in the stomach, weak in the knees kind of feelings. Will I ever get those again? I am forty now and my romantic self is rusty from disuse. The hinges on the gate to my heart are rusty and stuck. I need the oil of passion and tenderness to open the gate, to loosen the bolt and unlock my heart. Will this be mine? Or will I slide into old age a rusty woman who only feels inside my mind?
And yes, I am happily married. Husband and I celebrate 21 years this summer. Which is exactly my point. After 21 years, how do we keep the passion alive amidst three children (two of whom are teenagers...nuff said), bills, work, home maintenance, not to mention friends, dogs and a horse? I am on this road with a partner. I am so happy about that. But there are days, friends; lets all admit it; when the bloom is so far off the rose of this marriage that all that is left is a sad, dry, dusty stem.
My mission is to regain this spark, find those butterflies again and walk out a passionate love affair for the next twenty years. Or more. Stay tuned.

Montreal Millennium Summit

Well, another great trip to Montreal. Our friend, Daniel, hosts the Montreal Millennium Summit every year and it is our privilege to attend. It is a meeting of the minds regarding the UN's millennium development goals, in order to eradicate poverty by 2015. Kind of a 'check up' to see how we are doing, how far we have come and what still needs to be done.
The day is all about raising awareness, and of course the more high profile people you have the more attendance you get. Well, the conference was sold out so I guess there's your answer! Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York , Mia Farrow, Val Kilmer, Nick Clooney, the VP of Starbucks, plus the first Muslim woman to receive the Nobel Peace Prize, and many more activists and politicians graced the stage.
The most inspiring and touching presentations were by Mia Farrow, who travels to Darfur several times a year and always brings heart wrenching photos to show, and Sarah Ferguson, who tirelessly works for a mind-boggling number of charities to help children around the world.
I need to constantly have the plights of children and the poor in front of me, so that I may unflinchingly know and feel the horrors that are going on in places like Darfur, or Uganda. With knowledge comes responsibility, and we are called to action when we understand. What is our unique call to action? That must be determined for oneself. The overwhelming message of this years conference was to do something, no matter how small. If we all do our one small thing, this world will be a better place and we will be far closer to reaching the MDG's than if we wait for everyone else to do it. Sponsor a child. Travel to a third world country. Help your neighbour. Volunteer at the food bank. Write about your experiences. Tell people. We must dig our heads out from the sand and stare poverty in the face and be changed. And then change the world.

Spring Break for Mom!

Spring break has officially begun. This, in past years, has been a rather dubious holiday. The kids get two weeks off school, with the promise of spring-y weather giving moms hope that this will not be a repeat of Christmas, with the kids cooped up in the house with too much food and not enough exercise. I have just finished cleaning the house from Christmas break so I am not willing to go through that again! However, Monday arrived with a fresh dump of snow...aargh! I can hear moms all over town groaning into their coffee cups.
However things are different for me this year. I actually have....wait for it....an empty house! Gasp! This never happens around here. If they go to summer camp it always ends up being staggered, and with three kids the odds of them all being away at the same time are slim to none. But here I am staring two whole days in the face ALONE!! Victoria is in Mexico with her school, Hunter is at a friends' cabin on the coast, and Jordan and Terry are cat skiing in the Monashees. So I say, let it snow. Bring on the worst you've got, mother nature. I have sushi, wine and chick flicks up the wazoo and I don't need to surface until tomorrow night.
Of course when I first learned of my impending solitude I created grand plans in my head for all the soul searching and wisdom seeking I would do while alone. Write! Read! Journal! Meditate! It all seemed so noble, and right, and ... and then everyone left, the house was quiet. I could hear a pin drop. And it took all of three seconds for me to do the 'home alone' dance, waving my arms overhead, running through the house, yelling at the top of my lungs. Then I promptly went out and got my loot, raced back home, turned the fire on and.....watched two movies! Drank wine! Ate! And tucked myself into bed before midnight!
Ah well. I can do the noble things next time I'm alone. Let's say, in another twelve years.

whew!

Okay this is my very first blog post! I am sweating with anxiety and trepidation. Will I be good enough? Will anyone ever read this? Or will my words just sit out there in cyberspace, collecting dust on a virtual shelf somewhere?
The only reason I am even attempting this is because of some very lovely people I know who keep hounding me. For some reason they think I might have something to say that someone, somewhere, might want to read. So, curiousity has gotten the better of me, and here I am. I swallow my fears and bravely click 'Post'. Or at least that's what I imagine myself doing, I haven't actually done it yet. If you are reading this then obviously I have. What are my fears, you ask?
1. I have absolutely nothing worthwhile to say. About anything.
2. I will come across as a navel gazing, narcissistic putz. (see blog heading)
3. I will become obsessed with ranting about really weird things which mean nothing to anyone except myself, like why I get those dry spots on my elbows that constantly catch on my sweaters.
4. I will spend the rest of my life hunched over a keyboard playing hunt and peck while the real world goes on without me.
5. People I know will read this and then snicker behind me in the checkout line at the grocery store.
Okay, it's all out on the table. Better out than in, as that wise man Shrek says. Stay tuned.