I Love You, Frankenstein

Now that I consider myself an actual blogger, though I still feel a sense of modesty come over me when I say that, I think I qualify since I’ve posted once a week ‘with fail’ (shit and damn!) for almost one full year. 

There are 389,000 bloggers registered on WordPress. Today.  I am only one. WordPress is only one option.  Blogging is big.  Huge!  Initially, it was a daunting task, to assign myself an essay a week, much like college English Literature homework.  Find a subject, write it, edit it, edit it, edit it, and then edit it.  Find pictures.  Explore layout.  Think about grammar and verb tense, and paragraphs, and aarrrgghh. 

The simple truth is I enjoy blogging.  I adore English.  I love writing.  (Is it still ‘writing’ even though it’s typing?)  I enjoy critiquing myself and the sense of accomplishment when I feel I’ve written a nice piece.  And the icing on the cake is if anybody, A-N-Y-B-O-D-Y reads it and responds.  But I’m also a wreck on Thursdays, just in case anybody reads it and responds.

The hardest part, for me at least, is taking a subject I’d like to write about (like ‘how texting hurts relationships’) and igniting the passion underneath the subject at the very moment I need it.  Always easiest when emotions are on fire, sometimes words pour out.  Typos be damned.  There’s always spellcheck.  And the edit, edit, edit, edit phase.

Sometimes, I am immensely frustrated.  On the night before I self-publish, when I am stressed that it’s already 10:30 p.m., when I regret using half an hour to watch Modern Family, when I’m sorry I’ve waited til Monday or Tuesday to settle on a subject, when I wish I had a cigarette or 20 because the words, the RIGHT words, aren’t flowing so freely… First, determination kicks in, and I resolve that I will not give up, having made a committment to myself. 

Eventually, late at night when I know the following day may find me napping in the car at lunch, there comes a moment when my inner turmoil subsides, when I realize I have done all I can do.  And I walk away.  Or stagger away to bed with squinty eyes.  It is a sweet moment.

Sweeter still, because I have expressed myself creatively;  I’ve attempted to unleash something original.  I have CREATED.  Like the scientist as ‘proud father’ in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, ugly or not, this is my baby. 

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