I think I have blogger’s block. Normally, I’ve got about a million ideas swimming through my head with roughly 95% of them earmarked for Blog Posts I Would Have Time to Write if I Hired a Nanny and by the time I sit down at night to get the ideas on the screen, I have to decide which idea gets to be born into words and off I am on my merry way.

Lately, however, I’ve been struggling. Maybe it’s lack of motivation. Maybe it’s stress. Or maybe I most likely need to borrow some of HC Palmquist’s Ambien or Robin O’Bryant’s pet Leroy and see where those avenues take me for inspiration. I had originally been thinking of buying a huge metal chicken named Beyonce to be my muse, but looks like that’s already been done. So instead I’ve been finding myself staring at an empty square on my screen waiting to hold my words while Add New Post kinda just stand there, mocking me.

A new post about what? Maybe it’s just me, but I sometimes wonder if I need to filter my moods when deciding what to post. When it comes to blog hits, funny works. Introspective? Not so much. But that leads me to question why I am blogging anymore if my only desire is to see an upward trend in readership because if ‘m not writing for myself first than who am I writing for?

I’m not going to take some bullshit high-road and tell you that I’ve reached nirvana and no longer care what you or anyone else thinks and will be happy to just share my words on a public forum that no one other than myself makes time to read. I’m not going to tell you that being authentic is more important than being popular, mainly because, even through I agree with the sentiment, the blatant overuse of the word when it comes to blogging makes me want to pull my hair out. And I’m certainly not going to tell you that while your writing needs to be for you before it’s for anyone else, you had better damned well be thinking about your audience and your numbers and your popularity and your ability to network with other writers/bloggers/social media innovators to get your name out there for the sake of that Godforsaken platform because we’re happy your authentic blog that you write for religiously and maintain just for you because the mere act of sharing your words even if no one else is reading them is cathartic in and of itself but really? Who told you all that shit didn’t matter?

It’s all very chicken and egg-like. It doesn’t matter if our dream is to connect with others in the same place in life (shout out to all the Mommy Bloggers and a big WHAT UP to the Writer Mama’s out there!), or if we are trying to keep our heads above water in an ever-rising sea of expectations regarding what we need to have accomplished to be deemed worthy of a book deal (Bump-its come to mind), or if we just want to prove to ourselves that after wrangling the kids all day and looking for that nerve you are pretty sure you just had, we can still string together a sentence for other adults that don’t include the words “potty, nigh’ night, or Dammit, how many times do I have to tell you not to flash strangers your Hello Kitty panties to strangers in the middle of Target?” A dream is a dream is a dream. It’s just up to us to sift through the bullshit on the way, kick any and all irrelevant emotional baggage to the curb (being careful to store away the relevant emotional baggage for later use in the appropriate essays, articles, books, and or blog posts), and decide each and every time we sit down to send our words out into the universe what drew us to do so.

For me? This blog is my personal space which I publicly share. Sometimes I’m snarky, funny, offensive. Others I am introspective, reflective, and revealing. You might not like or appreciate the snark or maybe introspective isn’t your thing. And that’s okay. I’m not writing for you. I’m writing for me. And if something I say just happens to connect with someone who just happened to stop by on a particular day, that will be enough for me. I wore a mood ring as a child to let the world know without speaking the color of the thoughts I carried within my head. Now, there’s an app for that.

So which came first, y’all?

The chicken or the egg? The inspiration to share or the inspiration to influence?

 

Things you realize at 2:25 a.m.:

* Insomnia isn’t really your thing. It’s just a way of life you’ve grown accustomed to. Exhibit A? Mom came to visit which meant Buttercup slept in her room for the first week. You slept like the dead. Until the New Grandma smell wore off and the baby monitor ended up back by your bed. That’s when the fucking thought of even the slightest shift in the cosmos will make it impossible for you to get comfortable in bed, let alone fall asleep.

* Bed time stories entitled Go the Fuck to Sleep? Sound like the best idea ever.

* Dreams of hiring a live-in masseuse start to actually make sense.

* That Facebook Like Page that the rest of the world has? Yeah. You created one months ago, it seems. And because you couldn’t sleep tonight, you created a new one, found the old one, realized it was an old one, and deleted the new one. You think. But you aren’t entirely sure.

*You are convinced that you are so past the high school social anxiety related to people liking you…until you refresh your Facebook Like Page for the 143rd time at 2:32 a.m. and realize that only 39 people actually like you.

* The puppy licking your toes under your desk feels kinda kinky.

*That thinking about ( maybe possibly trying to) getting pregnant again seems like an entirely feasible way to celebrate the four years it took to lose the 45 pounds gained with the first kid.

* That if this actually works, and it takes four more years to lose the baby weight, I’ll be kissing 40 before I can identify my waistline in a police line up.

* That by the time Buttercup loses her first tooth, I will probably have to distinguish between the fruit and the smartphone when I offer her a blackberry.

* And that when she hears a bird say tweet in the park, she will most likely tell me to check my phone for new messages (because that’s what I’ll be doing, anyway.)

* That I am not in the minority when my phone rings and I get annoyed. Who the hell uses those things to talk anymore?

* It’s 2:42 a.m. And my kid didn’t come with a snooze button.

Tomorrow morning is not going to be pretty.

 

I don’t write about politics.

It’s not my thing.

But 10 years ago, I was in a small newsroom when the world stopped spinning. When planes hijacked by terrorists flew into the Twin Towers, killing thousands. I remember being afraid as I drove home that evening. I was in Michigan, far from Ground Zero, but I was afraid.

I interviewed a woman who lived in the city I covered who sat on a bridge as the towers fell. I cried as she spoke. All those lives lost. The hate responsible for our nation’s terror. She saw it all happen. Her eyes captured the images I painted with words.

Today, I am afraid once again.

The nation celebrates the death of Osama bin Laden. And rightfully so. I believe in justice. I believe in bringing those who lost loved ones the comfort that only closure can bring. And I believe that our nation has the right to cheer the death of one so evil.

But, yes. I am still afraid.

While cheerleaders do pyramids in front of the White House. While crowds sing, “Na-na-na-na, Na-na-na-na! Hey Hey, Hey! Good-bye!…” And while images of Stanley Cup celebrations cross in my mind with tonight’s breaking news, Osama bin Laden did not take all of Al Qaeda with him. Osama bin Laden did not die clutching all evil known to human kind to his chest.

I have closed my eyes and breathed in the sorrow surrounding Ground Zero. I am watching tonight’s celebration at the site and I understand it. I do. I didn’t lose anyone I know on September 11, 2011, and yet, I want to say the Pledge of Allegiance and sing our national anthem and shake the Obama’s hand and thank our military personnel who put their lives on the line to protect the country they serve.

I am proud to be American. But I am afraid.

Osama is dead.

But tomorrow is a new day. And I only wish I knew what it will bring. Because I don’t, I can only hug my sleeping daughter close, breathing in her innocence.

 

Let me first say that my mystery-thriller reading days consisted on Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys.

I’m a non-fiction kind of gal. I love reading memoirs and how-to books. Fiction? Gimme a Sophie Kinsella book and you are my new best friend.

So when I saw that Carolyn McCray’s 30 Pieces of Silver available on Kindle, I bought it only to support a fellow writer. And?

It. Was. Awesome.

I can’t compare it to anything. I won’t give away any spoilers. But I will tell you that I finished it in three days.

Because it was that good. Her characters are believable. Her plot is full of incredible twists. And the story? So very well told.

Are you a writer trying to build your platform so you can share your words with the world? Buy 30 Pieces of Silver, support on of your own, and send her a tweet thanking her for the inspiration.

She’s doing it, people. Give the woman some props.

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