The Title Goes Here

Thanks, Facebook World, for being my test subjects.

I bet you weren’t aware of that, were you? I placed you into a maze of my own virtual construct, changing up the patterns and voices, sending in new kinds of vibrations to see which ones would elicit a response.

I tried longer, deeper emotional pieces, which got a rave response, and I suppose I could spend all day writing blog posts. However, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that that’s probably the kind of writing I should reserve for a memoir made of paper, cover art, and binding, something I would write in an old log cabin in the middle of the woods with smoke billowing out of a picturesque chimney top.

Then I tried my hand at travel blogging (How a Nashvillian Rocks a Mid-Life Crisis on 30A), which was a two-piece part that could have been chopped in half. The only part I enjoyed writing was the memoir intro about traveling with my family to the beach every summer as a kid. I’m much more suited to write about my brother’s stinky feet in the heat of 1987 and station wagons with wood grain side panels. There is something oddly lyrical and satisfying writing an exposé about that time I watched the locals walk up and down the beach in their bikinis, and how that made me want to down one or seven margaritas before ducking into the nearest bathroom to dress myself in a full-coverage tinfoil bathing suit.

When I began my yoga journey, I wrote to inspire. That worked out well for me; I am a helpless romantic who tends to love the hell out of too many people. I can’t help it. It matters not their sexual orientation, religious affiliation, the color of their skin, or the nature of their past sins. I always give everyone a chance to show me the true nature of their heart, and I have been fortunate enough not to meet many in my lifetime who have an essence about them that reeks of asshole and rotten cheese. As a result, I want all of the people I love to succeed and feel good and happy. Still, that sort of thing I feel is better reserved for coaching someone else on their yoga mat (#lifegoals).

My writing which gets the best response are the short memoirs about my children and my family while life is unfolding.

“But that’s been done before,” I tell myself as I sit in the bathtub figuring out what I can possibly do to knock out my passion for writing in between changing poopy diapers and listening to my teenager verbalize her existential crisis of the day over her organic, gluten-free chicken nuggets. Does the world really need another mom blog? And, anyway, I hate putting labels to things. I would rather think of this blog as my own personal space where I overshare and regret it later.

I have followed other writers, read inspirational books, told myself that I need to read more fiction…have one more cup of coffee…Did I drink enough water today?…a glass of wine at 11am, perhaps…but, no, I have children and alcohol before 6pm is kind of ghetto…

Over the past few days, I have decided its time to stop thinking about what I’m going to write. Instead, I should beat my procrastination, which is really an excuse to be afraid, over the head with a stick, or at least try to tap the keyboard with it a few times to see if anything comes out onto the screen in readable format. Some would say writing such as that is better suited for journaling, but who has time for privacy anymore? That’s sooooo 1995, colorful Chuck Taylors, ugly flannel shirts, a really bad crush, and a Mazzy Star mix tape.

I’m a chronic oversharer anyway. TMI for me is better left to the bathroom while anything that seems to roll around in my head I feel an incessant need to share immediately. The mind of a writer is like a pinball machine. Thoughts bounce around up there, constantly hitting different nerves and threatening to knock the wiring loose.

My ultimate goal in life is to write a memoir. I have started it many times. I have trashed many pages. I have a few chapters finished waiting to be polished between a beginning and an end I have yet to write, but some of those stories are too ripe to come out of me. Instead, I need to start here and wait for the time, courage, and wisdom to write about those things, such as the years I spent during adolescence being verbally tormented by my father who only told me I was beautiful once in my life, which was when I was bulimic and self-infliction had become my protective barrier.

Woah, right?

*Pardon me while I repeatedly finger-punch the hard plastic button on this machine a few times and reroute this pinball before it falls down that rabbit hole this morning.

If I could take a moment, every morning, to sit down and simply show up here, something will come out onto virtual paper. I can’t always promise what it will be, but for the small number of people who I know show up for me, for you I will write. As a writer, I don’t need a huge audience, fame and fortune, glory and recognition. I don’t need rewards and flashing ad space crawling across my page (I hate blog sites like that anyway, and I’m not about to sell out to all of that noise.)

What I write will more than likely depend on things like how much sleep I got the night before and whether or not I exercised the day before. Feeling fat always reroutes my day into a downtrodden sadness that makes me want to punch people in the face for posting lovely Instagram photos of healthy, complicated vegan dishes they not only had time to prepare at noon on any given day, but they also had time to photograph it just so, and edit it to show precise colors and textures.

Some days I may be struggling with the frustrations of losing baby weight for yet a fourth time (not including the fifth time which came before my first kid). Other days I may ramble on about a bizarre experience at the Cracker Barrel on the posh side of town, or something interesting I did with the kids. I may have moments of spiritual awakening. Unfortunate days will come where I will want to vomit up all of the political garbage I take in on the interwebs of loud voices arguing to be more right than the next guy.

But, here’s the deal:  This is a blog. It may not come out in some neat flowing fashion worthy of me paying someone $500 to design something pleasing to the eye. I may never have my own “recipes” tab where I take the time to make fabulous meals and photograph it every step of the way. If you’re anything like me, you scroll pass those photos anyway that took a blogger forever to capture, just so you can get to the list of ingredients and instructions. Besides, if I was to capture my cooking skills in the making, it would look more like a real-life Oatmeal cartoon than an ad for Whole Foods Market, and a lot of explicit language would be involved.