It's amazing how quickly you can go from gung-ho to heave-ho. I started emdashery, all zeal and zest and dedication and fell flat within weeks. I have plenty of excuses for what went wrong, but in the end, I realize that F. Scott Fitzgerald was right: "A writer not writing is a maniac within himself." And while I'm in no way lumping myself into the category of FSF's greatness - nor am I suggesting that blogging will be the cure-all for my mental faculties - I am quite certain that more regular postings will make for a less em-bittered ash. Even though I don't have a presidential pardon to show for it, I do have a list of "buts" to explain my absence.
* But my computer died.Sadly true. After many threats and allegations that it would make its exit, the whirring clicking mess finally went kaput. I feel like it had a remarkably short life given its purchase price, but I suppose I was rather abusive to it during my thesis-writing days. It was also unmercifully shuttled back and forth from North Carolina to Georgia, was owned by a PC-incompetent writer, and gave me fair warning before its final click-tastrophy.
* But I was on vacation.I took a trip to Cleveland to see my best friend from grad school. It was the first time I'd seen her since her wedding in October more than a year ago, and it was my first real trip to Cleveland. (The trip for her wedding which mostly afforded me views of the hotel, her parent's house and a white dress doesn't count.) And while I'm guessing that your notion of vacation does not include Cleveland as a destination, it proved to be quite enjoyable. I left feeling like Cleveland gets a very bad rap...and also, that these
two videos are hysterically accurate.
* But I've been house hunting.When I moved back to Georgia after living in North Carolina for almost six years, I set up shop at my parents' house. After realizing that I sometimes go to the storage unit to visit the rest of my life, I decided that it was time to settle down and find somewhere to get my life out of a metal box. As one of the world's most deliberate human beings, this excuse gets extra merit. For me, house hunting isn't just an activity. It's a moral dilemma. I'm trying to be persistent, but it's so easy for me to get overwhelmed and think I can just live at home until I die. But then, I remember all my books, boxed and moldering, and a few pair of shoes that didn't seem to make it in "not storage" boxes, and I go back to the Real Estate Book with a Sharpie.
* But I'm getting old.Also, sadly true. I celebrated my 30th back in July. I thought that reaching the three-decade mark would make me feel desperate and panicked about all that I hadn't accomplished before the end of my 20s. Like going to Europe and New York City. Or writing a book and getting published. Or, you know, like getting married. But instead, turning 30 felt like a relief in some ways. An opportunity to start fresh, to reorient those goals for the next decade, and to feel like I have plenty of time for everything.
None of these excuses may truly beg my pardon for being absent for two-plus months. I started to throw in that I also experienced a moderate bout of writer's block, but that seemed like too much of a dog-ate-my-homework. So now that I've made my excuses, I will get back on the blog-wagon and be more diligent. If for no other reason than no one wants to see me become a maniac.
I stepped on the scales this morning, and to my horror, saw numbers I had never seen before between my toes. And while ever tightening waistbands and unzippable zippers have subtly suggested my love handles were becoming too much to handle, I was unprepared to see in very real numeric proof the score of pounds at the root of the problem. This "heav-alation" presented a problem that must be tackled (before it makes it to the buffet line), and so I've drafted a few action steps:
