Sorry I've been MIA lately. I've written so many posts in the last few weeks that I've deleted--they just weren't "working" for me on some level. Frustrating, but I couldn't click on "Publish Post" in good conscience. I'm sure they were brilliant in their own way (that's always my hope), but I honestly don't remember much about them at this point--they were that forgettable.
When I taught writing a few years ago, one of my main rants was the need for voice in the kids' writing. I wanted to know who wrote their story or essay without ever looking at the name at the top of the page. Grammar, punctuation, sentence structure--these are all important elements. But the risk is that over-attention to technique can result in sanitizing the writing to a point where the personality of the writer is either too subverted or missing altogether. My writing is like my piano-playing: the main idea is there, but the way I execute it is unique to me. Tempo, dynamics, and fingering are highly subjective in my opinion and I take a lot of liberties with my music. The same goes with writing.
I read a lot of blogs, many of people I know, more than a few from those I'm not likely to ever meet. Of course, there are lots of approaches to blogging. One is to treat it as an online journal, chronicling the daily comings and goings of one's life. Another is to keep extended family updated on Johnny's first tooth and Mary's potty-training escapades (the little tyke!). Ugh. All little kids are cute and annoying and surprisingly alike. No new parent wants to believe that, but it's true. I tend not to visit those blogs--just aren't my thing. Cooking blogs are awesome, and I have some good ones listed on the sidebar at my other blog, Ambrosia. I have a huge collection of cookbooks in my kitchen that I like to get ideas from, and those in blog-form take up a lot less space.
I don't know how I would describe this blog. I suppose it's more personal essay, if I had to pin it down. It started out as practice for me. Since I was forcing small children to write in their journals daily, I felt I should at least write once a week or so. It has definitely been therapeutic for me. Seeing things in print often makes something obvious to me that wasn't before, even if I read it months and months later. Sometimes especially if I do. I had no idea that my posts and playlists were saying what they turned out to be saying to me until nearly 18 months after I started this blog. There it was, screaming at the top of its lungs, and I couldn't hear it at all. Someone else heard it before I did and pointed it out. A completely different person heard something else entirely, just as loudly. Both truths were exactly that--dead-on true. I suspect that this will repeat itself in any number of contexts, which is a very intriguing thought. It's almost like cryptography, isn't it? Magical in its own little way.
Things have calmed down considerably for me, at least immediately. Of course there is that little thing called "Christmas" coming up that I haven't paid a whole lot of attention to yet. I'm told the children will be traumatized if I again wait until the 23rd to put up a tree, so I really should address that. We had a discussion at work about "neighbor gifts"--cookies, Sprite, dish towels and the like. I typically don't do anything at all because I'm never that organized, though we do often manage something around New Years Eve when things have died down a bit. I liked my mother's approach. She stuck a bottle of Scotch in the mailbox for the mailman and called it good. I doubt our mailman would know what to do with it here in Utah County, but it might be worth a try.
Drive safely in the snow, enjoy the holidays, and thanks for reading.
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