The Beginning

I have been told I should start a blog, me, mouthy and loud me. So here I am starting a blog. I guess that your first blog should be like the first chapter of a book. Wonderful, exciting, captivating. My life is not, so sorry to those who were expecting that I was published. I am not, consider that confession numero uno. I hope some day to publish my year long (more years long) struggle known as The Infamous Book. No, that is not its title. That is what I call the book when I am irritated with it.


Writing is hard work. True writers will tell you that. There is nothing romantic about sitting in a chair getting fat while you stare at a screen going blind as you type away getting carpal tunnel. What is even less romantic is the things people will say. If you do not have a back bone of titanium, than you will sit in a corner with the wonderful woe-is-mes. It's like banging your own head against the wall while someone is kicking you in the shin. That is the romance of writing. It is not sitting at a table outside at a cafe in Paris/New York/San Francisco and scribbling in a Moleskine(T) notebook. (I do have one, but it is the only thing that can take the abuse that my purse dishes out.) Writing is hair-pulling, depression-giving difficult.


Then why do I do it? I love it! Yes, I am crazy enough to want to be a writer. A novelist to be exact. I have gotten the comments about the uselessness of it all, and rolled eyes, but I still want to do it. I have been through the grind where I had to produce a short story of 3,500 words every two weeks. Trust me, it is so wearing that it makes you realize what you do want to do. It makes you know whether you want to be a writer or not. And I know. Even with the reviews on my latest endeavor being less than stunning, I still trudge forth with my head held high despite my bruised shins and the welt on my forehead.


So where does the military housewife bit come into all of this. I guess it has to do with the fact that next to punching out words on keys worn smooth, I have to do my husband's laundry and prune my fingers with dishwater. Yes, currently I am a housewife, and that is the one thing making me crazy. As the psychotic multitasker that I am, I am also looking for a job.


Welcome to the life of me bashing my head against the wall while sorting lights from darks as I type out my resume with one foot.