Lunchtime

I write. Monologues, newspaper articles, kids’ stories, sewing patterns, the odd email. Poetry, nonfiction (creative or otherwise), some stuff that could get me excommunicated, but rarely post comments on Facebook. I’ve never tweeted. I’m not LinkedIn. And the idea of “blogging” completely freaks me out.

I love blogs. I want to know what complete strangers are crafting and cooking, how they’ve organized their closets and their finances, why they think the world is awful or beautiful or exciting or horrifying.

My favorite thing in the world is a well crafted sentence. I love a-ha moments and the writers who create them. I love show don’t tell, making every word fight for its right to be there, applying butt to chair, and never giving up.

I love when words come so quickly the pen can’t keep up. When they are not my words. I am just the spout through which they pour and my contribution is to order them on the page.

Of course this is no small task. Rarely do they flow in a slow, steady, sensible stream. Often they crash out like milk from a jug too full for a toddler’s control, tossing Cheerios onto the table and making puddles on the floor.

Can I harness the torrent?

Can I join the conversation?

I feel like the school nerd asking to sit at the cool kids’ table. You’re the varsity cheerleaders and football captains of the blogosphere. You’ve got the latest web page layouts from the online mall. You’ve lettered in magazine credits and patented catch phrases. You’ve got glamour shots. You’re probably thinking, “You”re only just now starting a webpage? Welcome to the 1990s, loser. BTW, nice bell bottoms.”

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Maybe I’d feel more comfortable inviting you to the nerds’ table.

Would you like to have lunch with my words today? You would? Cool. Awesome! Sit down. Oh, wait– let me wipe that milk off the chair first.

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