Day 2: Let's start with failure and go from there

Well, Dear Readers, it's been a while. Seven months + one day. My longest blogging dry spell yet. Does it help to know I write lots of blog posts in my head? Posts about all kinds of shit, like rapists and body image and vaginas and riding my bike and how my neighbors park like assholes and the vagrants who live across the alley and their fucking rooster and how I haven't been to karaoke in a while because I got roofied the last time I went. And no, that's not just an excuse for getting too drunk. It happened, and I do have a story to tell. I have told it and edited it and rewritten it and rearranged scenes and done everything except put my fingers on a keyboard, because these days I mostly just write in my head. If somebody could invent a gadget that would allow me to dictate straight from my head I would be the next Stephen King. Only what's inside my head is sometimes scarier than what's inside his.

Hold on .... the dog's barking out in the back yard ......

I'm back. Some vagrant back there yelling, "Jooooeeeeyyyy. Jooeey. JOE! Joooeeeyyy...." Drives poor Crow Cocker nuts. Earlier tonight I heard one of them yell, "If she gets on top and he gets on the bottom, that will be OK with us! Just do it! Now!" I don't even  fucking want to know what that was about. They might be playing Twister for all I know. I can't see because my garage is between them and me, so all I can do is guess, and that's not the path to mental health.

At least the fireworks have mostly abated for the night. It sounded like Viet Nam in the 60's  around here tonight. I digress.

But no, I don't digress. In just the 5 minutes I tried to sit down here and write the first blog post of July on July 2, all I did was write a paragraph and then bam. Off I went to do some other shit. Because OC that's what it's like living in this house with my 4-year-old princess granddaughter and a 90-pound autistic poodle.

I do have things to write about. But .... and yes, here come the excuses .... once I get Coraline to sleep at whatever time we stop reading -- usually 10:30 or even 11:00, all I want to do is sit down on the couch with a glass of chardonnay in one hand, the remote in the other and a bowl of chips in my lap. And I thought getting rid of cable would fix my addiction. Fucking Netflix.

And don't tell me 99% of you haven't either watched the latest season of Orange Is the New Black or are in the middle or intend to as soon as you're back from your latest vacation. You fucking know it's true.

I will confess, it's not like I don't get an evening or a day off sometimes. I do. And when I do, I either go out with other grownups or I get out my lists and try to get a bunch of shit done or I go to work, like I did today, or I sit on my ass and read a novel. An adult fucking novel. Or I go on a bike ride. Or I take the dog on a long guilt walk ... or ... or ... or ..... Sit down and write isn't even on this list, because I need to unload the dishwasher. TBH, I've lost a lot of the spontaneity that used to drive my writing. I need to regroup.

I don't really believe in writer's block, although I'll admit some people would diagnose me with that dreaded disease. I believe in "writer not putting her butt in the chair." I believe in that affliction, and I definitely have it. Not that my butt doesn't spend plenty of time in a chair. I just don't spend that time writing. Except on Facebook. Let's not talk about Facebook, OK?

I'm working on it though. I've held a couple of bootcamps here at my house for writers and visual artists recently with surprising and inspiring results. And this month I'm going to try to write a post every day here, even though I've got a day to make up already. If I succeed in writing 5 posts a week, I'll consider it a success. If you want to help me out by leaving some comments, that would be great, but if not, I'm still going to keep writing. And after this month, if not here, other places that actually pay a few bucks plus exposure.

Finally, while I'm in confession mode, I will confess that one of the reasons I don't write is because sometimes I'm so disgusted by what's going on in this country if I did start writing, I'd be up all night, every night, writing bitter vitriol and I can't afford to be in that place all the time. I have a queendom to run here, and it's hard to separate that shit from trips to the park (dog and people) and play dates and gardening and snuggling up to watch Cupcake Wars and all the other wonderful things I need to focus on instead of spilling my rage on the page. I could write an entire month of posts just on the subject of rape, but who wants to read about that every day? Not you, right?

OK, that's it for tonight. Excuses and piecrust promises, easily made and easily broken (Mary Poppins). Feel free to send me suggestions for posts. I might not take them, but I will appreciate them. And I'll try to be back tomorrow with something real to say. Pinkie promise.

Somebody proof this for me, will ya? I need to go to bed.