I joined a Facebook challenge to write 500 words a day.

It is decidedly the most unchallenging challenge I ever challenged. I could sit and write quite happily forever and ever, I think. It should be noted that editing and judgment of one’s writing are not part of the challenge, thusly the unchallenginess. Still, it’s a thing. I’m doing it. Doing things is good.

You know what comes at me in a never ending onslaught??? I’ll give you three guesses.

Crazy bitches?

Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about right now.

Crime drama reruns?

Again, yes, but not in this context.

Books I want to read?

100+ degree temperatures?

Thrift shopping adventures?

Nonsensical words &/or mumbles from the mouths of male humans in my life?

Okay, okay. Enough!! I commend you for your insights, but that’s way more than three guesses.



Ideas. I think this is part of why I haven’t kept up with writing as a passion/ pastime/ pursuit throughout my life. I can’t get anything even remotely close to finished before I get another idea, and I don’t know how to handle them all coming at once like that. My follow-through game is weak, and even if it weren’t there’s no way it’d be fast enough. I literally have a new idea for a new novel, short story, children’s book, memoir, how-to, blog post – or ten – every day. I can’t keep up with that! How am I supposed to keep up with that? I think to myself, ‘One at a time, Self. You can’t just bounce from idea to idea every day. You’ll never finish anything!’ But then I think, ‘Who’s to say this idea that I’ve started pursuing is the best one? Maybe one of the others is better. Maybe I shouldn’t be working on this one.’ Then I’m totally paralyzed. And this isn’t even touching on my artsy-craftsy crochet-all-the-things ideas, which I also get constantly but don’t bother much about because I’m just not that good at it and it doesn’t give me the same buzz as writing.

I guess I could endeavor to relentlessly cull every unnecessary thing out of my life and get to WORK at writing like I mean business, but I don’t feel justified in doing that unless I’m a professional. Which reads a lot like ‘I need to be validated by money,’ and that makes me want to puke at myself (do people puke *at* the objects of their upset? is that a thing? apparently in my world it is.) (Fortunately, if one is going to puke *at* a thing, oneself is probably the easiest thing in the world to puke at – chin down, puke. Job well done – so at least I’m setting myself up to succeed in some arena of life.) (Puking at things {no matter the puke-worthiness of the target} is not, surprising though this may be, the life arena in which I most desire to be successful, so this is not at all encouraging), but at the same time, money is a necessary and valid part of the equation (unless I submit my application to volunteer on a farm in the Ukraine raising Carpathian buffaloes {Don’t even act like I don’t have the link saved on my Facebook right now, because I absolutely DO have the link saved on my Facebook right now…} but if I’m in the mood to be really honest with myself {which I’m not}, I don’t know of any free transportation from the American Southwest to the Ukranian Buffalo Raising Region, so I can’t even do that without money, and thusly the point is most entirely moot). I can’t ignore money altogether, even if I want to (which I do), but that doesn’t mean it should be the thing that decides what I do.

So that’s that. I cull the unnecessary and spend all available time writing all my ideas as efficiently as possible so as to move on to the next in a timely fashion. Thank you. I’m glad to have that sorted out. You’re quite helpful.


You know what else is hard? (whine, whine, whine! How long have I been such a spoiled brat!?! Geez. Somebody shut me up already) My ideas are good. I like them. Heck, I love them! I genuinely believe in their merit. And the quality issue freaks me out quite as much as the quantity, because what if I do not have the requisite talent to do them justice? What if I have a fantastic idea, and then I write it poorly and it’s dull and boring? I don’t know if I could live with myself. A bad idea is one thing, but a good idea poorly executed? Well, that’s just my fault.

I hate things that are my fault.


I’m not sure what aspect of character is built by being RIDICULOUSLY FUCKING HOT FOR ABOUT A MILLION AND A HALF DAYS IN A ROW, but by the end of this summer, I am going to have it in spades. (What does that mean? Is it about cards? or shovels? or is there another ‘spade’ of which I am unaware? because how many people really just have lots and lots of shovels? But there aren’t more spades than any other suit of cards, so that doesn’t make sense either.) (Don’t worry, I’m as much for using colloquialisms I don’t actually understand as any other red-blooded American, so I’m just gonna leave it in there.) I despise being overly warm. It is just so inherently uncomfortable and ugly and there is not a thing in the world to be done for it. Bleh. Why did you let me move here??? (When I’m working on the farm in the Ukraine with no place to shower, no wi-fi connection, and only buffaloes for friends, I won’t blame you. I’m taking full responsibility for this one.) (This is the part where you say, “At least you’ll fit right in with all those buffaloes on account of your hair,” and we laugh and laugh.) (And then I cry, because it’s true…)

I read a book about how to be a good writer once, (well actually about a million books about how to be a writer, but I’m only talking about this one time right now) and it said not to use adverbs. And my dream died right there on the spot because I really and truly am quite sincerely attached to adverbs.

Don’t worry, my dream resuscitated. Stubbornly.



My mind certainly is beset upon by parenthetical comments. See? It’s because I can’t figure out how to handle multiple ideas. At least I am thematically consistent.


Do you know, when I first read your last post/letter, I missed the one from a day or two earlier about having a best friend (who needs to be exorcised??? I remain unclear whether it is you or I who have the demon, but I’ll let it pass because it seems irrelevant at this point in our relationship). Thankfully I went back for a re-read and caught it, at which point I got all sentimental and misty-eyed and marveled yet again at what a miracle it is that you love me as much as I love you, and what a thing it is after all this time to still be so surprised that it is possible. You are marvelous, my dear. I adore you the best of everything.






p.s. It’s from bridge. The game, not the structure. Spades are apparently a big deal in bridge. Never played it. Thusly the not knowing. I now know. And such are the wonders of Google.




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