I think the key to getting back to blogging is to just write. I hear writers talk about this all the time; the simple practice of writing is bound to produce something.
When I first started writing I only pictured my Mom in Montana as my audience; I couldn't have imagined anyone but her ever finding what I had to say about my day to day life of any interest. That got me thinking that maybe I just need to simplify it. Perhaps my goal of trying to "wow" all of you (all 3 of you) is too daunting. Maybe I just need to start out simple; just get back in the habit of writing and not try to blow you away with my wit and or wisdom.
I used to journal every day. When I was in high school and college I filled pages and pages and pages with stories of stupid boys who either loved me too much or not enough. I would copy down the lyrics to love songs and cut out articles from "Glamour." I always pictured my someday children finding my boxes of journals after I had long died and thoroughly enjoying themselves as they poured over my wise writings and lost loves. I saw myself as a real life "Francesca" from Bridges of Madison County who had lived this secret, romantic life that her children never knew about.
I stopped journaling sometime around 1999 and sometime around 2004 I found all of them and spent a whole Saturday reading them. I was horrified at my melodrama and threw all of them out except for the 2 I kept while in India and the one I kept in Alaska when I met Hot Jeff.
Speaking of Bridges of Madison County, I know everyone hated that book but I loved it. Still love it. The other book of his, Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend is so underlined and dog eared I would never dream of loaning it out to someone in fear of what they might find out about me from the underlined passages. I should re-read those books as an adult; I wonder if I would still love them. As a twenty something who had her heart broken I found them so wonderfully romantic and tawdry I couldn't help but read them over and over. I think I'll re-read them. I might make my book club read them too; just to torture them. Ha!
Aren't the words "Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend" just about the most lyrical, poetic words ever? It just begs to be read in a big, red chair with and equally big, red glass of wine. I don't think I was a legal drinking age last time I read that book. So now I'll have age and liquor as an influence. I'm getting so excited I'm going to go start right now. 10:21pm and I'm going and digging it up. I don't even think its on the book shelf; it may be in a box in storage. Hmm.
Ok, who is going to read it with me?