Just popped in to say hello…

Yoohoo! Anyone home?

I idly clicked on my blog link today after months of purposely avoiding it, and was surprised to see how much time had elapsed since I last delighted the world with my fulsome inanities. Has it really been five months?

I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed laying blogging aside to take up other things, although I’m not sure that all-day mega marathons of America’s Next Top Model provide the same stimulation and creative outlet that even my humble efforts at blogging do. Forgive what sounds like lame self-help psychobabble, but it’s been somewhat of a months-long exhalation of relief not to worry about doing anything (you know, aside from all that parenting-and-earning-a-living malarkey), and just being. I’ve spent hours happily sewing sock monkeys, reading novel after novel, and surfing the net with as little purpose as a leaf afloat upon the waves.

But always there’s been something niggling at the back of my mind. I think I’ve mentioned before that my job entails writing reports of the sort that every government department produces and no-one much cares to read. I’m considered reasonably good at churning out dry and utilitarian pages on sausage casings, smoking techniques and other meat-related issues, in which there is no call for arresting vocabulary or inventiveness of expression. This week, though, I staged a one-woman rebellion and penned some flowery prose on the characteristics of the latest all-in-one robotic meat slicer and vacuum packing marvel. Such a seemingly small thing as choosing one set of words over another made me disproportionately happy, such that I was grinning and giggling even as I knew I’d be forced to rewrite it. It was then that I thought perhaps it was time to start writing again, time to unblock the outlet for the excess of pomp and overblown construction swirling around in my little brain.

However, the niggle wasn’t content with this. Without the distraction of any other form of recreational writing to keep such thoughts suppressed, I’ve been forced to confront the probability that my skill in writing is not what I judged it to be three or four years ago, when I was fired with the prospect of successively completing my three works in progress and tripping easily down the road to bestselling riches and renown. I’ve come to accept that these few months of doing nothing, achieving nothing connected with questionable talent may not be merely a period of sabbatical, but a reflection of the life I am destined to lead. Excuse me my moment of poor-little-comfortably-off-white-Westerner, but it makes me sad to think that I’ve spent so much of my life foolishly pursuing ambitions that are beyond my reach and dessert. At the end of my life, I had hoped to be able to look back and point out some achievement besides my kids turning out okay despite my terrible mothering. Alas, right now that seems unlikely.

Still, what kind of a deluded self-deceiver would I be if I gave in now? I’ll keep turning on the computer pretending I’m going to get on with some serious writing, even though I know I’ll end up reading about ugly tattoos and uglier handicrafts. I might even start blogging again and pretend that someone cares about my tiresome whining. In that spirit, let’s pretend I’m going off to write a book about sparkly zombies who use magic to solve the mysteries of secretive Moonies, or something. Look out for it on the bestseller shelf!

Thanks for the tea. Toodle-oo!