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?

My sweet friend Christene sent me a note (actual paper, actual postage) telling me she was anxious to hear the rest of my story regarding saying goodbye to Gigi.  I feel like I owe that to you, to her, because you faithfully read this blog, faithfully visit it even though there are no new words to entertain you.  And you have been on this journey with me and you want to know how it ended but I will be honest, I don't want to write about it anymore.  I will try to fit in its conclusion somewhere and somehow but to just sit down and relive it now that I'm starting to heal seems counter productive.  Or maybe just sad.  Maybe next month when I'm PMSing and feeling like I want to cry and eat pumpkin pie and listen to soft rock I will finish it up but for now, sorry.

Another friend, Christy, had a kidney stone earlier in the week and read my old blog post about one of my many kidney stones.  That idea intrigued me and so I decided to read it.  Wow, that girl is funny.  She writes so easily; she can really tell a story.  Hmm, where did she go?  Where did her passion for telling a story go?

My sweet "other mother" Lori sent this to me this morning, it is an exceprt from a blog she was reading but I swear I could have written the words myself had I known how.   I was sure my creative days were over and any chance of me ever having anything worth saying again was not only lost but killed flat dead on the ground, limp and lifeless and puny. You know how that goes. When you long for time to write or create, you have exactly 47 billion things to say. And then when the time finally comes, you sit and push out all distractions and you got…nothing.

I've made promises to you in the past that I would get back to this wonderful process of writing.  That I would take full advantage of someone, anyone, taking pleasure in my ramblings and stories and musings and I have failed.  Failed miserably.  I get so busy with kids and laundry and Facebook (Facebook really takes blogging and shrinks it down to 2 or 3 sentences and instant gratification.  Hmm, this isn't the first time this week I've thought I heard God nudging me to take a break from Facebook.)  Anyway, no promises this time.  I'm just going to try and write.  Write anything.  If it doesn't have a title or a moral or joke, I'm just gonna write anyway.  Read, don't read.  Comment, don't comment.

Oh I hope I can do this.