cheaper than therapy

There's no use denying it: I was nervous. I checked in at the registration desk, slapped a name tag on and went into the bathroom, to practice some deep breathing. To knock some sense into myself. I kept thinking about the last writing seminar I took, before this blog, when Lexi was in diapers. The 'instructor' held up abstract pictures of car bumpers, headlights, and we were to churn out something worth reading aloud under florescent lights. I spent the 20 allotted minutes, looking out the window, imagining the real teacher was stranded on the side of the road, leaving us with this bozo. But this line of thought was frowned on, so I wrote my piece, stumbled through it and tossed the community college catalogue when I got home.

I had given up on writing, put it aside for years and here I found myself, trying again.

I closed my eyes, feigned calm. I opened them to a rape hot line poster on the back of the stall door. It didn't help.

I made my way to the auditorium, and within minutes I was confronted with the question most bloggers struggle with: So, are you a writer?

*****

I find mentioning my blog creates furrowed brows, the glazed over glance once reserved for people who play D&D in basements or stand in line with their mothers to pal around with Simon Cowell. I know, to some, it breeds contempt and ridicule, yet, this is what I write.

I think I could take it further, stir up some good gossip 'round here if I talked about how therapeutic blogging has been for me, how reading other women's sites fills a hole I've been shoveling to cover since I became a Mom. I know how that sounds, me huddled with my laptop, 'hanging out' with my imaginary friends. Yet it feels right, and I am thankful every time I open my google reader and see you, lit up to greet me.

*****

Now that my youngest is in first grade, conversation turns towards work, what might I like to do now. I always had Big Plans, to return to some management position. I loved working, used to work like a madwoman. Maybe I was.

I want to shrug; say I don't know. But lately I've been letting the truth drip from my lips: I want to write fiction, I want to see a novel through.

I now how it sounds, but anymore, I just don't care.

*****

Technorati Tags:NaBloPoMo, writing, novels, writing seminars, career, vocation
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