As I sat staring at the blank page and blinking cursor this evening, I yelled to my mother in the other room “I don’t know what to write about.”
Her response was “Isn’t it about time to give that project up?”
I was surprised because she’s usually quite supportive of the projects I tackle on a whim. And I’ve been pretty successful with this one, compared to my other harebrained ideas like making collages or jewelry and any number of the musical lessons I’ve attempted.
Maybe she’s just getting sick of me saying, “I don’t know what to write about.” Or maybe she’s getting sick of reading my blog and me saying, “Have you read my blog today.”
I replied with an indigent, “No, it’s not time to give this up!”
I heard a sigh and then, “Well, is there an end in sight?”
I don’t think she was pleased when I told her it will have been a year at the end of May. She’s more of a pessimist than I am, so she was probably thinking “Five more months of this” while I’m thinking “I’ve made it for seven whole months!”
Maybe I should start thinking “I don’t know what to write about” rather than saying it out loud.
I was listening to the latest Books on the Nightstand podcast yesterday and Ann Kingman said something about War and Peace being the book that sits on her shelf and haunts her for years and years, but never gets read.
Does everyone have one of those? I do. It’s Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables. I’ve owned it since college and I’ve never finished it. Not even close. I can see it on my bookshelf from here and there’s a bookmark sticking out of it about a third of the way in. Not that I’ve read that far. I probably just stuck the bookmark there for safekeeping.
Every time I do a bookshelf cleanse, I look at Les Mis and think “I should probably get rid of that. I’m never going to read it.” But I can’t seem to give it away. I hold onto the hope that one day, I’ll sit down and read it and love it.
Or maybe it’s the fear that someday I’ll run out of books and Les Mis will be the only one left to read. You never know. We could have a book apocalypse and I’d be glad I’ve got 1400 pages of Victor Hugo to read.
I went out to dinner tonight to a nice steakhouse as a little pre-holiday celebration. The place was really busy and sitting near our table was a big group of ten or so high school students all dressed up in suits and fancy dresses. One of them told the waiter that it was the local high school’s holiday dance.
I’m not a big fan of teenagers, but maybe that’s because the ones I usually run across are waiting for the bus our front of my workplace. Judging by all the smoking and swearing, those kids don’t seem to be the most upstanding citizens.
On the other hand, it was rather amusing to watch tonight’s teens as they played at being grownups.
One of the boys told his date that he was ordering a Caesar salad, shrimp cocktail and a steak. All he needed was a glass of scotch to complete the meal and he could have been in an episode of Mad Men.
When the shrimp cocktail arrived, he very politely slid it across the table towards the girls and said, “Would you like a shrimp?”
I was impressed that a hungry teenage boy would think to offer it to his date before taking a bite himself. And I was also impressed that the girl took one instead of demurring and acting like she didn’t ever eat.
Maybe teenagers aren’t as bad as I thought.
WordPress has a listing on my blog’s statistics page called “top search referrals.” It shows what people typed into Google or another search engine that brought them to my blog.
I always check it out because people Google very strange things that link to my blog somehow. Once in a while it’s obvious like my name or one thousand words project, but right now the list includes “Justin Bieber on Michael Buble” and “Where to post my body switch.” People Google about switching bodies all the time and my post about that is actually one of the most read.
What worries me is that almost every search is misspelled in some way. “Name some writtne projects” and “1000 words about my mohter,” for instance.
People aren’t very careful when they’re searching the internet. Maybe that’s why Google created that little “did you mean” program for the top of the page.
Or maybe that program is why people don’t check the spelling when they search. Shame on Google for contributing to the decreased spelling skills of today’s youth.
I’ve been thinking about writing a post on Christmas wishes that Santa can’t bring. Not sanctimonious stuff like peace on earth (although that would be nice) but more personal stuff that can’t be purchased.
But I’ve only come up with one and I don’t think I can get 1000 words out of it, so I’m just going to write about it here. I warn you though, it’s kind of silly.
I would love for an author I admire to read just one of my blog posts (preferably a fiction) and leave a nice comment. Nothing too laudatory, just a “nice job” or “I liked this.” Maybe with a smiley face.
That would just make my day.
But why would an affirmation like that be so important to me? I enjoy writing and working towards my goal, so what would a comment from one of my favorite authors accomplish other than stroking my ego?
I don’t think I’m going to examine that question too closely. It’s a Christmas wish after all. They don’t have to be rational, right?