I’ve finally given myself permission to write. It’s only taken about a half century to get here. But in light of how long it’s taken women in general to make any real progress, I figure I’m doing OK.
If 50 really is the new 30 then I must have another 40 years to prolifically write. Maybe purge is more like it. I need to get “it” all out, whatever “it” is. With spell check by my side nothing can stop me.
Being an inveterate chit chatter, the conversational format of a blog syncs with my personality, the world’s short attention span, and our quest for instant gratification. Blogging may even be better than a quickie. But enough about sex. Most of my delirious skin soaked episodes are a byproduct of lingering hot flashes and embarrassing brain fog. I’m more often thinking, where’s my keys, where’s my mojo, where’s the thought that left me mid-sentence with my mouth hanging open?
I may take a nom de plume. I don’t want to end up like Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings sued for libel after describing her good friend as a foul mouthed, ageless spinster who resembled an angry and efficient canary. That’s not something that I’d recommend tweeting out.
But, let’s face it, sometime, somewhere you’re gonna piss someone off. Yikes! Did I just write gonna instead of going to and did I really write piss in a sentence? Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Before I had my personal epiphany to just start writing, the depressing headline of my obituary would have read:
“She always wanted to be a writer but she never had the balls to do it.”
Scratch that… insert chutzpah. Woman aren’t born with them and we have enough to juggle.
“Chutzpah, Chutzpah, Chutzpah. Courage, Courage, Courage!” This is my new mantra.
The little girl who always wanted to write is bubbling up and bursting out of me.
She will not be denied.