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I’ve been checking out a few other blogs lately. Not too many. I still lack time. As it turns out, I don’t always agree with the popular opinion. I am surprised by how many blogs seem to have a huge fan base and yet are poorly written. Maybe it’s the former English major in me, but I can’t get past bad writing. I understand that there are people who have things to say who aren’t necessarily brilliant writers, but to be honest, I struggle to read them. Spelling errors and bad grammar drive me crazy, and trying to focus on a story in spite of them is difficult. I’m a blog snob.

There are a few blogs out there that are gorgeously written and designed, blogs that leave me feeling inadequate. Someday I hope to have a more customized page, but for the moment, it’s beyond my abilities. At some point I also hope to have examples of more creative work to post here as well. The goal of this blog, at least for me, is to encourage me to write things more meaningful than the random contents of my head. If I continue to write each day, I am hoping the muscles in my brain where the more creative stuff resides will be exercised along with the well-used navel-gazing ones.

I started a children’s story years ago and never finished it. In the beginning, Braeden used to ask me about it and plead with me to finish. Later though, he stopped asking. It came up recently and I discovered that he had no memory of the story at all. That made me sad. I showed part of the story to a couple of friends, and they seemed to like it. That should have been enough to inspire me to keep going, but it wasn’t. The beginning of the story popped into my head pretty much fully-formed, as these things tend to work with me. But after that, I started to struggle. Nothing I tried to write seemed to work, and I couldn’t find the right way to continue the story.

So here I sit. I can blog all day long, Avery permitting, and I don’t worry about it. I change words here and there as I go to make things flow, but blogging doesn’t come with the same level of angst that creative writing does. You can critique my random thoughts if you wish, but they’re just that, random thoughts. Someone else’s opinion on them might make me briefly happy, or briefly irritated, depending. But it won’t have the weight of the world attached. If someone doesn’t like a story I’ve written, on the other hand… the very thought of it makes me want to pull the covers over my head and sob. So my solution to that has always been simple. Either I don’t finish the story to begin with, or I don’t show anyone the part I have written. No emotional risk. No reward, either. Better to cower under the blankets than face that particular fear. I’d rather cuddle up next to the Boogie Man under the bed.