Ever feel like you have so very much you want to say but the effort it would require to give it the respect and time it deserves is totally beyond your current energy reserve?
Frankly, the very thought of buckling down, sending home and publishing as posts the myriad drafts I’ve got in the hopper — having to spill out all the necessary verbs, pronouns and conjuctions and then string them together in a reasonably prolific and comprehensive way — exhausts me.
And then there are lots of other thoughts in my pea brain bouncing to and fro, projects and plans in the pipedream stage, concerns and frustrations about certain adoption-related situations, pleasure at having met some interesting online folks recently through their comments or private emails, and then the usual drama of parenting an adorable, independent and feisty toddler who’s just moved into her “Big Girl Room” (oh, just wait for those pics — my mother and I were armed with paint brushes and drunk on creative kool-aid) and as a result, now pops up at an unreasonable early time each and every stinkin’ day (OK, I must admit she’s always been a late riser as 10 am on the weekends was not, ahem, unusual, because she’d sit in her crib, then later in her three-sided crib, for more than an hour after waking, just looking at books, sing-songing and talking with herself!) and so I’m now incredibly morning-sleep-deprived. (Airquotes on sleep-deprived because a certain friend of mine would growl at that notion, sure to remind me she’s had an early riser since her daughter was born and I actually know nothing of sleep-deprived.)
Plus … I’ve got photos to edit and share! Photos I love!
Ah, so much I want to do yet such a dearth of creative energy. It’s a pickle.
But! I have a solution! My birthday is just a couple days away and so I’m treating myself to a mani and a horribly needed pedi and I’m sure this bit of pampering will spark my creative soul and provide a refuel of sorts. Yes? (On a pathetic note, that pampering is courtesy of a gift card from my birthday last year and I’m just now getting to it.)
So I shall be back, armed with stories, melt-my-heart photos and blathering opinions, and will stand at the ready, fountain pen in my newly manicured paw.
Perhaps y’all (shout out to my Southern Illnois childhood right there) could re-ink your own wells and leave thee a comment once in a while. My stats don’t lie — I see you’re out there, you quiety-mcquiets.
After all, a girl needs to feel loved. Especially as she’s on the cusp of officially turning another year older and beginning the slide dooooown toward a big, scary, this-can’t-really-be-happening number she’s finding herself seriously annoyed about. (And, not for nothing, but thinking of that number has her thinking about other kinds of ink, too. As in the permanent, oh-just-live-a-little-and-ignore-all-the-cellulite kind of ink. Design ideas are always welcome and, frankly, encouraged.)
There. I’m. Done. Me and my run-ons (yet with accurate hyphenations, aren’t you impressed?) are outta here. For now. I’ve got my dog-eared Sark book on Living a Succulent Life before me, my favorite source for handmade goodness loading as we speak, and I’m counting the minutes until my solitude and salon-time.)
Bring on the creative juices.