I don’t know if you know this about me.
I consider myself an artist.
Of the creative sort.
The writing sort.
The unemployed creative writing sort.
It’s all I ever want to do.
That’s me in a nutshell.
Write a book. A poem. A blog.
I don’t want to do anything else.
So. . .oddly enough. . .it has surprised me beyond words that for awhile now, I have not been writing.
I have been thinking about writing.
Children’s chapter books. Adult fiction. Cooking books. MY BLOG.
Nothing. nothing. nothing.
And then I thought. . .I’ll blame it on my kids.
If they are going to eat me out of house and home, ATLEAST I aught to be able to blame some atrocities on them. . . .
the scratch on the side of the Yukon. . . .they totally did it.
The rip in the lounge chair. . . THEM. . .them. . .them.
What happened to the last piece of brownie? It totes was them. Never mind the crumbs on my shirt.
Anyway. . . .they could be the reason why I’m not writing as much.
But, they aren’t.
They are the ones that make me more creative.
They give me my stories to right.
They are the shenanigans that make my life. . . .colorful.
I think its me.
I think that I have gotten to a point in life, where I must change the way I write.
And relax a bit.
Give myself a little room not to be the best.
Just to be me.
So I’m going to keep writing. .. .
cause I never could stop even if I tried.
But my style might change a bit.
I may actually write less.
Or more. . . .with less pictures.
Or with pictures that aren’t edited.
I don’t know.
I’m not sure.
It may be different everyday.
But I jut wanted you to know,
that I’m here. .
and I’m okay. . .
And I hope you are too.
Here’s what I’m up to today.
Digging in my garden.
Trying to figure out how to keep the pesky birds from eating them all up.
What are you up to today?