Wednesday, July 9, 2014
I plunk my ever-widening derrière into the seat at my desk and pound away at the keys on a nearly daily basis. I fill with verbiage letters to friends, three blogs, a couple of networking sites, and, thus far, nineteen books in varying forms of pajama-undress. Often I concoct scenes while hanging the laundry or driving somewhere.
Now and then I have a chance to contemplate what I do. At times discouragement looms on the horizon as I obsess over how many people aren't reading what I have to say. Why is it a single dad writing about dating woes or a style maven talking about the right purse with the right outfit get thousands of readers and I with my wild variety have only a dedicated few? Why do I have such a backlog of orphaned books waiting for publishing parents?
I shrug. Perhaps I'm doing it wrong. Perhaps I should be offering style tips (laughable as I'm the poster child for frump) or helpful relationship hints (also laughable since I'm still trying to forge a way through the marital ice myself) or non-stop blog hops and raffles. Maybe I should spend more of my time courting those 'parents' who will love my babies as I do.
This chair is where I live. This is where I stand, mental pith helmet firmly strapped to my head, hiking boots laced securely, as I gaze out over the vast escarpment, past rank on rank of whispering trees to the purpling mountains beyond. If you want, you can join me on Mars or a tour of the smoke vents at the bottom of the Marianas trench. We can go barrel racing or shoot aliens in deep space. My latest book will involve synesthesia.
Welcome to my world. Now get your SCUBA gear and your snowshoes and let's go.