Well now.

So I have this friend who's an actor and a playwright (both in reality and in aspirations) and he's been giving me a lot of shit because I haven't been writing myself lately.

Technically, I HAVE been writing, here on this blog and over at The Metropolitan News, but in the grander scheme of literary ambitions (I can't deny my English major and creative writing minor without confronting a large stack of thereby-pointless student loans), I know that this blog is bullshit. It's all fluff and shock and awe without much content, especially since my brain pain.

In years past, I was featured many times on the really kick ass blog Five Star Friday for posts that one of my readers connected with in some way, and none of those posts were particularly blog-centric. Instead they were creative non-fiction or fiction itself, like this and this.

I haven't been nominated in a long time and I realize that's because I haven't written anything worth a damn.

Funny? Fuck yeah.

Therapeutic? Sometimes. More than not, really.

Disgusting? Always.

But literary? No. Not even a little bit. In fact, my writers group is probably getting a little sick of my lame excuses for why when they show up for a meeting, they have pages for us to review and all I have is a bowl of popcorn and a compulsion to bum a cigarette from them. But they're too consumed by their own creative drive and their awesome works in progress to really spend any time kicking my ass over..how lazy I am.

I could blame not having a laptop, but my actor friend vetoed that excuse. Something about a pen and paper. What the hell are those? I didn't really understand, either.

I could blame my lack of being in school, but that's kind of, oh, one hundred percent my fault, and anyway I don't want to be in school for the rest of my life, so at some point I'll have to man up and make myself write even if I don't have an assignment deadline. Hell, if I get what I REALLY want, all I WILL have is deadlines, and I hear publishers are even less forgiving than college professors in that regard.

I could blame my wedding last summer, but...that was last summer.

I could blame my head injury, but that was only a valid excuse for the amount of time it took me to be able to shower without vomiting or using a shower chair. I'm lucky as fuck that my brain wasn't permanently damaged so that I was no longer able to write creatively - or at all. I should be taking advantage of my second chance at creativity.

When I break down all the excuses, I find that I'm just tired. And scared (hey writers, feel me?). And out of practice. And lazy. And I watch too much television and I drink too many beers and I adopt too many dogs.

I'm giving myself every reason in the world not to write.

And so I guess I'm going to do what any self-respecting woman would and just fucking write already.

All of this to say that some of the things I post here might not be my standard blog fodder. I may not tell as many awesome poop stories for a while, and I probably won't discuss cervical mucus (unless I have a really awesome chunk of it myself someday). I'm going to make myself post shit that came from somewhere a little further in my head than a bad penis joke.

And I'm exhausted just from finding a pencil.