I have been subjecting friends and family to my creative compositions for many years now. Why? Because I can. I insert my sarcastic sentiments into emails, my didactic diatribes into letters, my eclectic exaggerations into Christmas cards and my flippant philosophies into regular conversation. I can't help myself. There is something in my brain between thought and expression that twists the words into something more (or less) than merely declarative.
Occasionally, when I have nothing in particular to say or am too lazy to put it to paper, I am compelled to put new words to old songs. Christmas carols. Broadway tunes. The occasional standard. These things often come to me unbidden when I hear a tune at some performance, but most often they are something to put in my Christmas cards when life has been mundane and I have nothing interesting to say. This doesn't happen often, because my life is incredibly exciting (you will learn to recognize these moments of sarcasm,) but it does happen.
I could never write professionally. I can't take the pressure. I can't just sit down and be creative on demand. The Christmas card deadline alone often drives me to drink (OK, drink MORE, are you happy?) Plus, my propensity for procrastination sabotages some of my best efforts. I may get a great idea in April, and even type an outline and some random thoughts as a guideline, but in December, I return to it and draw a complete blank. If only I had looked at it in the intervening seven-month period, I might have had something I could polish up and use. But that would take some holiday pressure off of me, and what fun would that be? I once started a birthday song for my niece for her 21st birthday. I set words to the fight song of the university she attended. She's 23 now. That ship has sailed.
In a way, this blog will actually spare a lot of my victims. Instead of writing a long newsletter about my travels or experiences, bragging about my amazing offspring, ragging on my husband when everyone knows he is a saint to put up with me, or spewing forth on some political or philosophical topic, I can just refer anyone who cares to my blog. Of course, all former victims have always had the choice NOT to read what I've sent them. But let's be realistic. I have never refused to read anyone else's letter that has come to me, even when I knew in advance it was going to annoy the crap out of me. It's like driving by the scene of an accident. You just have to look. So I go ahead and read it and then bitch about it. The circle of life.
My daughter has a blog. It's part of her study-abroad assignment, but it also allows us to keep up with her and feel connected while she is halfway around the world. My friend (and neighbor next door) has a blog, and is working toward becoming a published author. I am a copycat. My daughter wore braces, by neighbor got braces, so I had to get braces. My daughter went to Italy, my neighbor went to Italy, so I had to go to Italy. My daughter blogs, my neighbor blogs, so I have to blog. My daughter runs half-marathons, my neighbor practices extraordinary self-discipline in the presence of food, so I have to blog. OK, so my copycatting has limits.
In the future, I will write about my trip to Italy, post pictures for my fellow travelers, float some new ideas and possibly dig up some old stuff to share. Who knows? But I've made a start, and I'm feeling pretty good about it!
