Well, here it is: my first blog.
This page has been set up for quite a while now, and on my to-do-list for even longer. Why has it taken me so long to get back here? Why am I even here, in this wonderful WordPress world at all?
There are lots of reasons for delaying this digital publishing debut: A long and all-consuming summer family vacation, a virus infested laptop, a tendency to procrastinate… But the main reason is fear: Fear of criticism. Fear of judgement (even from my 13 year old daughter, who is currently hovering around me while I try to write this, and I am flicking back and forth between this and my facebook page when she comes within viewing range so she doesn’t see what I am writing). Fear of trying really hard and just plain sucking at the one thing I have always thought I could, just maybe, be good at.
In short, I want to write: I want to write the kind of things that I want to read. I don’t know how that’s gonna go, especially after reading that last paragraph.
I read somewhere during todays’ internet-trolling, coffee drinking, procrastination session that in order to be a writer, you have to write. That’s it. Just write. And like anything, the more you practice the better you get.
So this is me, just writing.
This is it…
Any minute now I will know what I want to say and these poised fingers can get to work……………
Yep. Just as I thought. Every brilliant thought that has EVER run through my mind that I thought worthy of sharing has now disappeared without a trace. I got nothing.
Instead of trying to write what I know, maybe I should write what I don’t know or understand… The things that make me go hmmmm… Or, cry out “Why God, Whyyyy?”
When trying to think of things that baffle me, nothings incites more forehead slapping, eyeball rolling, hand gestures (on occasion) and outright fury, than the behaviour of parents at school drop off/pick up time. We have moved around a bit and I have noticed that parking has been an issue at most of the schools my daughter has attended. It makes it even more of an issue when members of the Prado Parade double park their shiny tanks. Here’s a hot tip for you: If you can’t park it, don’t drive it!
And while we’re at it, let’s talk about Stop, Drop and Go Zones… Or Kiss and Go… Or whatever they call it at your school… You know what I’m talking about. All versions of the title are self explanatory. It’s not just a title, but a step by step guide as well, spelt out on big bold signs as you enter such designated areas in school car parks all around the country. It is NOT the place for you to spend 10 minutes talking to other soccer mums about your Lorna Jane addiction. It is NOT the place for you to check your phone, or your make up. And it is certainly NOT the place for you to park, exit your vehicle, assist your children to remove bags from the boot of your car and then give them all kisses, affirmations and instructions for the afternoon and then watch them walk to class. You stop, you drop, you go. That’s it. If you can squeeze a kiss in there without undoing the buckle of your seat belt then good luck to you, but keep it moving, folks!
I guess driving has actually taught me lots of lessons, other than the operation of a motor vehicle and road rules (and obviously, how to Stop Drop and Go). Most recently I leaarned the meaning of irony, when I was cut off in traffic by a car sporting a “Share The Road” bumper sticker. It doesn’t just apply to bicycles, mate!
I don’t know if all writers/aspriring writers have an interest in the roots, origins and evolution of words, but I certainly do. Like the word MOCHA for instance. I wonder if some barista somewhere, when first asked to add chocolate and milk to his delicious silky espresso named it so because it was making a MOCKERY of coffee?
I really like nice greeting cards. I used to make my own. I used to do a lot of things. I’m a hobbyaholic. I went to buy some birthday cards the other day. At Kmart, not anywhere fancy I might add. I picked up a card that said “Happy birthday Mum” in some blues and greens that I’m really digging on at the moment and it had a bit of glitter on the front – always a winner in my book. Inside it had a generic message like “Have a great day” or “Hope your day is special” or similar. Certainly nothing poetic, funny, sentimental or even remotely close to being worthy of deserving/needing to be copyrighted. That being said, I am a writer (or so I keep telling myself) so I figured I should be able to write something myself (which, in reality ended up being something seriously thoughtful like “Dear mum, Happy birthday, We love you, from sj & co”). I flipped the card over to check the price. $9.99. No that can’t be! Surely that’s the NZ price? Look again. Yep. $9FREAKIN.99! For a piece of mass-produced, printed cardboard with a sprinkle of glitter and a dull unimaginative message. Hear this, Hallmark: it’s not gonna happen!
And can someone please tell me why my daughter, who gets to pick out her own shampoo and conditioner in the store, always opts to use mine instead? Actually, it’s not just shampoo and conditioner, or just hair care and beauty products. Or clothes. Or shoes (Please God, let her feet keep growing so I don’t have to continually search for my footwear in her feral bedroom!)… And it’s not just a recent teenage thing either. I wish. No, it’s been this way for over a decade. Even as a toddler the food on my plate was apparently always much tastier than the smaller portion of the exact same meal on her plate. I know I’m not alone on this one as I’ve seen my friends kids do the same. But seriously, what the fuck is that? My food is a bit safer these days and now, thanks to a metal petty cash box with key lock my make up is once again safely secured from her late night bathroom selfie sessions, but everyday I have to wade through the pit that is her bedroom to look for something. Whether it’s my phone charger (because she can’t find hers – no bloody wonder, in that room!), any kind of cool stationary on my desk (apparently this is communal property, which means it is hers), or the remote control for my tv (because…. I don’t know why. I just don’t know.). Nothing is sacred.
Well, that turned into a bit of a random series of rants in the end. Oops.
But I wrote. And that is what I set out to do.
So, mission accomplished. Go, me!