of the tip of my tongue

After the last two bookish blips, I thought I’d keep it matchy-matchy and say three words about writing. Only three though, because I reserve rambling for academic papers.

I’m an introvert — every word exiting my mouth is measured and rehearsed. I’m a friendly introvert, though, with a little swag. Enough to be eloquent a few times a year, but not enough to go pro and freestyle rap fulltime. Thank God.

Of course it’s even worse with the written word. It’s painstaking, the coaxing out of words from the cozy cocoon of my mind.

So I pretend that I can write, and pretend that I can fire off effortless paragraphs while yowling falsetto harmonies to vintage Lauryn Hill, and ignoring the squeak of the pinkie-sized mouse who moonlights as a crumb destruction specialist  in my kitchen, and wearing an obnoxious brass ring that jangles every time my middle finger types an E, D, or C.

See what happens when I try to write about writing? Gah!

All I really wanted to say today was this:

About three months ago the idea of this blog was pressing down so hard on me that I yelled “UNCLE!” and brought it into being. I’m so glad I did. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading and engaging and enriching my journey since then.

Any unborn creative endeavor poking you in the ribs, these days?

 

 

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