Soapy Suds Swishing So Sweetly

If you ever came to my house to watch me do laundry (and why wouldn't you???) you would witness a strange scene of me sniffing everyone's (clean) underwear. To be fair, I sniff the other articles of clothing when they come out of the dryer, but I don't feel weird about it until I get to the underwear. I have a little obsession with clean laundry and the way it smells and the sound of the dryer, ahhhh and the washer when it fills with water and churns the suds around and around and around and then around and around and around the other way. Look, I'm getting all wistful and stuff.

I enjoy laundry so much that I count laundry as one of my hobbies. It's a good thing I love it, because with three kids and two active (sort of) adults in the house I have a lot of it to do, so I might as well enjoy it.

In college I had to write a paper called Zen and the Art of _______. The purpose of the exercise was to make us understand the pleasure that could be attained in everyday, menial tasks. Now, I finally get what they were trying to teach me, like, fifteen years later. I can get as much pleasure from folding lovely, soft towels as I can from doing something really spectacular.

I gotta be honest, I so did not get this at eighteen. I think I rattled off a paper about how much I LOVED, of all things, are you ready for this? . . . seriously, I don't think you are . . . no, for real, it was . . . ironing. Ugh!

I mean I get laundry, it's clean and warm and it smells good and it's all crisp and the hum of the dryer and the swish, swish of the washer and the way a new dryer sheet feels between your fingers . . . okay, I really like it, but ironing! Ironing is sweaty and dangerous and, good grief, you gotta make sure everything is laying flat first or else you put creases where you don't want them and sometimes the kids will run in the kitchen while I'm ironing and I worry that someone will trip on the cord and the hot iron will fall on their head and I have a real to life scar from ironing that I'll have, like, forever!

What was I talking about? Yeah, I really like to do laundry. Plus, it's the only time that I get to quote Shakespeare in my everyday life: "Out damn spot, out I say, one, two." And let's face it, everyone could use a little more Shakespeare in their life.

Mum’s the Word

Yeah, my front yard has been looking kind of bleak, I get it. But this is a rental, and try as I may, I just can't make myself care too much about this house.

However, the weather was turning all pretty and cool and the fall flowers were all out and displayed at Lowe's and stuff and I got a wild hair and suggested to my three-year-old that we plant some flowers. Of course, as soon as the words left my mouth, I wished that I had them on a fishing line so that I could reel them back in. But . . . it was too late. She heard me and worse, she liked it!

I tried to ignore the planting flowers suggestion, but she woke up every morning and reminded me. Then I tried procrastination, telling her that we would do it next week, because I was far too busy checking my e-mail and editing books that won't ever be published to even think about planting flowers. Then, she woke every morning asking, "Is it next week?"

I guess my conscience started to get to me. Pesky thing.

So . . . I took the anxious little child to Lowes and let her pick out the poor daring plants that wished to be sacrificed in my front yard. Really I admired the beautiful purple blooms for giving themselves over to me. I mean, seriously, it's remarkable that three kids have survived under my care when zero . . . no lie, zero, plants have.

You know, I even feel a little sorry for the plants before I bring them home to die. Sometimes I'll apologize to them at the store—"Yeah, I know that you guys could have gone home with the lonely widow who dotes on her plants more than I have ever doted on another human being, but . . . you got stuck with me. But, you can't always choose who you get stuck with, so you just got to make the best of the situation. Look on the bright side, you'll get transplanted, I can guarantee that, and you'll get watered at least . . . well . . . maybe once, though it could be . . . like . . . four times if I can get my seven-year-old on board with the whole green thumb project. You know, it's possible that I could turn my life around and start caring for you guys. So . . . there's a chance that you'll survive beyond two weeks . . . if it rains . . . a lot."

So now, in addition to the beautiful dead tree in my front yard I also have an assortment of mums in various stages of decay and I put some pumpkins in there to make it all festive and yes, gourds because . . . I don't know why. I guess just because I'm a stay-at-home-mom and that's the kind of thing that we do to feel productive.

Yep, gourds.

That's my life.

Where is Waldo? For Real. Where He Go?

My five-year-old told husband the other day that he should dress like Waldo for Halloween. I looked at husband with squinty eyes and said, "Yeah, you do look a little like Waldo." He raised his eyebrows at me and I added, "Only way hotter, of course."

So, husband asked me, "Can you make a Waldo costume?"

I responded, "Uh, can pigs fly? I mean . . . wait . . . they can't so, what I meant to say was, yeah, of course I can!"

Now, don't get the wrong idea and think that my life is so void of things to do that I ran out to Wal-Mart that very day for Waldo-Costume-Making-Supplies. No, of course I didn't. I waited at least a day. So, if you want to make your very own Waldo costume for Halloween, all that you need is:

1. 1 ball of red yarn
   
2. 1 ball of white yarn
   
3. Long sleeved white t-shirt
   
4. Bright red Duck tape
   
5. Husband willing to dress like Waldo
   

So . . . all you do is make a hat with the yarn starting with the red and work it in the stockingnet stitch for a while and then switch to the white. You know, knit the purls and purl the knits, 'cause it kind of looks a bit more manly than a regular stitch and stuff. And then make a pom-pom with the red yarn by wrapping it around two circles a bunch of times and then a bunch more and then wrapping more yarn around it and you know, you have a pom-pom. I totally should write a book on knitting hats. Right?

Then, take the shirt and do a row of red duck tape and a row of nothing until it looks like a Waldo shirt.

Then, wait . . . where did the husband willing to dress like Waldo go? Oh, wait . . . wait, wait, wait . . . now the Coast Guard wants to send him to Florida during Halloween?!?! What? Who cares about Homeland Security, I spent all this time with Duck tape and yarn and stuff to make this great costume. How can the Coast Guard be so callous???

So, I have this awesome homemade Waldo costume ready for Halloween. Any takers?

And don't even think about suggesting that I go as Waldo if you value your life. Though I may seem quite self-deprecating, trust me, it's all an act. I'm as vain as the next girl and . . . really . . . red and white horizontal stripes???? I don't think so.

There, I've said it.

Running on Empty

Let's talk about this exercise thing I've been doing lately. I gotta tell you, I'm not really lovin' it like I should. In fact, the only reason that I still go to the YMCA four times a week and stay for at least an hour, honestly, is that I don't want the child care staff to think badly of me. I suppose that this is one of those times in life that it's good when you care what other people think about you.

I mean, really, if I got off the treadmill when I wanted to, I know they would look at me sideways and say, "You're done already?" Those times when I stay longer than an hour and feel all good and empowered and stuff, I check the sign-out sheet and there is always someone who signed their kid in before me who is still somewhere in the gym sweating their butt off (or yakking to someone in the locker room is what I tell myself). Seriously, though, what are these people doing?

When I run outside and keep a good schedule of running, I can do it (outside) for longer than an hour. But . . . running on a treadmill, I'm totally bored after, like, five minutes. I'll read the CNN closed captioning thing for a while and then they'll go to a commercial and I'll look at the girl next to me out of the corner of my eye and she'll be, like, walking really slow and I'll think—Wow! She's lucky! She gets to walk, while I have to run. How come I can't just walk? Why is she so special? You know, I think that walking is supposed to be better for you than running. Maybe I should walk too. Yeah, I think my heart rate is too high anyway. I bet if I checked it on that automatic heart-check thing, it would be like "Danger, Danger." So, I should walk.

Then I'll look down and see that I've only ran a half mile and I'll think—Holy cow! This would only have been a warm up if I were running around the neighborhood. There's no way I would walk if I were at home, I'll keep running. Hmm, but there's a girl on the other side of me and guess what, SHE'S WALKING TOO!!!! I think that walking is the new thing, I should try it. Yeah, I'll walk. Wait . . . that other girl was just warming up and now she's running too and oh no! she's running faster than me!!!! I can't compete with her, I'm about to die and I've just gone three quarters of a mile and I think my heart is going to explode!

I think my biggest thing is that I don't like for other people to watch me exercise. I'm not the most graceful of girls and my run is really more of a glorified walk and . . . I just feel silly. But I like the way it makes me feel after and I like the break from the little one during the day and I like to be able to button my jeans from time to time. So I do it. And I tell myself, "You don't have to like it, you just have to do it." And then get up the next day and do it and the next day and the next because, it's worth it. It's just sometimes hard to remember that when your heart is about to erupt and you can't control your breathing and your legs feel like rubber. But it always is. It's always worth it.

So get up and go, Hollie.

Yes, right now.

For real, turn off the computer and get your butt to the gym.

I mean it.

Self-Doubt and Other Things I Wish Had Been Wiped Out in the Flood

I did it. It's done.

I have cut and copied and pasted and edited and deleted and rewritten my novel . . . again. Now, I am ready to send it out into the world again for another round of rejections . . . again. Perhaps it sounds as if I am being a bit negative, but I like to think of it as preemptive self-pity.

Querying a novel causes so much self-doubt to well up inside of me that when I look in the mirror I expect to see a fourteen-year-old girl who is worried that no one will ask her to the dance.

When I come up with an idea for a novel and when I am writing a novel, I feel so good about myself that sometimes I giggle at inappropriate times. I'll read the New York Times bestseller list and picture my name on it. I'll visualize myself sitting at a table at Barnes and Noble asking eager fans, "Who should I make it out to?" I will even go to bookstores and find where my novel will be shelved one fine day (between Sanders and Seth if you want to know).

When I'm editing my novel, a little hole opens up inside of me and some of the good feelings start to drain out. I find myself going red with embarrassment when I see some of the things that I've written. Maybe I'll even bang my head on the kitchen table a few times and mutter, "stupid, stupid." But then I'll fix the book and patch up the hole and tell myself, "Okay, maybe not the bestseller's list, but still a table at Barnes and Noble."

But when the rejections start rolling in, that is when the hole is blasted open and I can't believe that I ever thought that I would ever, ever have a chance at being published and look at all the hours and hours I've spent crafting this novel and no one even wants to read sample pages and don't they know that in the seventh grade my English teacher told me that she would be surprised if I didn't make it as a writer one day and oh, wow I feel so stupid for ever getting my hopes up and I'm never ever going to get my hopes up about anything ever again and I'm never ever going to ever try anything new and oh yeah, I even burned super tonight and I can't do anything right why do I even try to do anything, I am a failure at every single thing in my life, it shouldn't even surprise me anymore!!!!!!

It's true, I think this and more. But . . . at heart I am a cheery person and only sometimes a brooding artist, so I usually bounce back . . . eventually.

With every rejection, it gets harder and harder to keep sending the book out there, because it's one more person who doesn't think it will succeed and if they think it won't succeed and they're the experts, why should I think it will?

Ants. That's the other thing I wish was wiped out in the flood. Ants.

I Was a Poet and Didn’t Even Know It

I find myself to be of two minds about poetry. There is a part of me that wants to discuss it with everyone I meet and go to open mike nights at arty bars and recite my original works and send my poems off to be considered for publication. Then there is another (larger) part of me that wants to deny that I have any idea what poetry is and disavow any knowledge of poems I have ever written and even wipe my hard drive clean of said poems and maybe even smash my laptop in case some computer savvy person came along who knew how to restore deleted files.

Poetry can be a little embarrassing.

Writing fiction is fun. You get to create all these characters from nothing and give them these traits and an interesting past and none of it has to have anything at all to do with you unless you want it to. You can't do that so much with poetry. My poems come from a part of me that I barely even know exists and most of the time, I don't want to know it exists.

It boggles my mind that so many poets and songwriters can just put themselves out there in the public like that. I can't imagine the bravery it takes to show someone your soul and then ask them to tell you straight up what they think about it. What if your soul isn't really as unique as you thought? What if it's kind of creepy or just plain weird? What if you think that you're all deep and inspiring, but really you're like Nickelback, out there thinking that you're saying something profound when really you're just making me want to bash my radio in?

I mean, come on, "And this is where I went to school, most of the time had better things to do." Yeah, no duh, I can tell you didn't go to school much by your inane lyrics and complete inability to be subtle in your songwriting. Clearly, Nickelback missed the class on metaphor. Just because you put words on paper and then put these music note things around them and then sing those words with a gravely voice, it does not mean that it's good, or even that it's music.

Total aside—but stop leading them on people! I mean it, stop buying their albums! You're just encouraging them!

So, if you're expecting one day for Hollie Sessoms to be crowned Poet Laureate or to see me up there at a presidential inauguration reciting something I scribbled on a paper towel whilst I was doing dishes one night, let me just tell you—what's poetry?

Sew Good

So, I really like Halloween.

Forget what the kid who lives next door told me about how it's the devil's holiday, 'cause I don't buy into that. It's just costumes, candy, and cacophony (sorry, I needed another "c" word) to me. Of course, the way that some of these young girls dress like they just want to have an excuse to look like a prostitute—well . . . maybe the kid is on to something.

But I don't love it for the inappropriate costumes or even the gooey treats. I love it because it gives me an excuse to sew something that doesn't have to look perfect, because it's only a costume for crying out loud!

It's possible that sewing isn't the best hobby for someone like me to have. That is . . . someone who comes from the school of It's-Good-Enough. We're taking applications for spring semester, by the way. But, even if I'm not great at it, I still love sewing. Just don't ask me to hem your pants unless you really hate those pants and only want to wear them to the Headbanger's Ball.

Unfortunately, as my kids get older, it gets harder and harder to get their "permission" to sew a costume for them. How mean would it be for me to say to my seven-year-old that I don't care that he wants to go as Jango Fett from Star Wars, I have a great pattern for a scarecrow that I'm dying to try out and he needs to suck it up and just be the dorky kid in school for once!

Lucky for me, I still have a three-year-old and though she is headstrong, she is still quite impressionable and a few slight of hand tricks on my part, like ordering Wizard of Oz and making her watch it over and over and telling her that we might get a dog that looks like Toto (I meant stuffed, but she doesn't have to know that) and voila! I have my Dorothy.

Once she saw reason and decided that Sleeping Beauty was ooh so stupid and Dorothy was ooh so glam, I headed to the fabric store to pick up my Dorothy pattern and gingham and broadcloth. I took my goodies home and started perusing the pattern (Simplicity #4139 for those of you who want to try it) and only then remembered—I am a terrible seamstress!!!! How will I make this lovely pleated frock????

Honestly, truthfully, I didn't understand the first five instructions. In fact, I barely understood the instructions on how to cut out the material. I freaked a bit, because even though sewing may seem economical, it's actually quite expensive. I spent almost $40 on supplies for the Dorothy costume.

So, I took a deep breath, I took a step back, I relaxed, maybe I had a glass of wine, and I started from the beginning and did everything that they told me to do, even if I didn't understand it. And I ended up with a pretty good imitation of a Dorothy costume if I may say so myself! I was quite pleased. Just don't walk behind my daughter on Halloween because it's possible that there may be some defects in the back where everything didn't quite meet up the way that it should have. Not that there are . . . it's just possible.

Good life lesson to be had—taking a step back, a sip of wine, following the directions, and just trying something new, can somehow, sometimes work out okay.

Dancing about Architecture

You know that movie where Angelina Jolie falls in love with Ryan Phillippe when he has blue hair. I would totally google it and tell you the name, but that's a whole thing and I don't really feel like doing it. Anywho, there's this one scene where Ang and Ry (that's what I call them when we're hanging out) are talking about love and Ang says to Ry, "Talking about love is like dancing about architecture." That's sort of how I feel about writing—writing about writing is like dancing about architecture. It's nigh impossible and a little pointless. But I'm going to do it anyway.

For me, writing is . . . not an option. I don't ever say to myself, "Hmmm, maybe if I get time today I'll write," or, like I've heard some writer's do, "I will sit down and write 3,000 words today no matter what!" For me, when I want to write I MUST!!! Resistance is futile. I HAVE to do it. These phrases or images will come to my mind and I literally have to get them out of me or else fear that they will bore a hole in my head and get out that way and then I'll never see them again and I'll have this ugly hole in my head that I'll have to do something about. Though losing the images is a little more frightening then having a hole in my head.

The relief I feel when I do get these words out is indescribable. I am in love with my words. I want to marry my words and have babies with them. I want to snuggle by the fire with them and toast to our future. I want to grow old with them and hold their hand when I'm on my deathbed and whisper in their ear that I will see them on the other side.

I have tons of hobbies and the balance with writing and real life is the hardest one to attain. I don't feel like I'm going to go crazy if I don't finish knitting that blanket. I don't put PBS Kids on for hours a day (I know—bad mom!) so that I can plant mums and arrange them around pumpkins and gourds. I don't sit for so long that my butt goes numb from sewing pajama pants because I was transported to another world. I don't sacrifice anything for my other hobbies because these other hobbies are merely rearranging elements that already exist.

Writing is different. Writing is creating something from nothing. Writing is escaping for a moment. Writing, on a good day, is discovering that you're a little in awe of yourself. Writing is making your dreams come true even if it's only on paper. Who could resist that? Who would want to?

Anyone care to dance about that with me?

Rocks, Sticks, and Other Fun Things

My family and I made a great escape to the woods this weekend. The drive out there was like a car chase with me checking behind us every ten seconds to make sure that real life wasn't tagging us, trying to ruin our weekend. When we arrived at the woods and the quiet engulfed me and a peace settled on my shoulders, I felt pretty sure that we gave real life the slip. My tongue lolled out of my mouth, I started panting, and I didn't really stop until the camping trip was over.

There's something about being in the woods that makes me realize that almost every single thing that I do each day isn't real and I don't even know it. I don't know how often I feel bored during a normal day. I always have plenty to do, but I'm usually bored doing those things.

In the woods, I can stare at a tree or a fire for hours and not feel bored. I can sit in stillness and listen. My kids can be utterly entertained by a pile of rocks, a few twigs, and a really cool feather. I can wake up in the morning and do so much before I have my first cup of coffee (this is unheard of at home). We can walk for hours and see nothing but trees and leaves and not have anyone mention the words Mario or Brothers one time.

To be fair, at one point while we were hiking in the woods, I looked down at my feet and thought to myself—you know, I'm going to get me some really cool hiking shoes for the next time we do this. Ooh, and maybe I'll get some of those crinkly khaki pants with the pockets all over. Ooh, ooh, and I'll carry a backpack with nothing in it but water, cliff bars, and trail mix, and I'll carry a walking stick, and I'll fix my hair in pigtail braids and when I take the braids out, my hair will be all cool and wavy. I smacked myself for being in the middle of such natural beauty and only thinking about how I wanted to fix my hair. I guess that some of real life caught up with me. But I am totally wearing my hair like that next time.

The morning we were leaving, as I sat on an ancient land once occupied by the Occoneechee Native Americans and looked out onto the glistening lake . . . yes . . . a speed boat went by and brought a poem to mind from dear old William Wordsworth. I will leave you with this today.

The World is Too Much with Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Vampires . . . We Gotta Talk about It

Everyone has some pretty interesting things about them. I'm sure. Most everyone. Well, some people. That crazy guy at the YMCA who sings along with his ipod quite loudly while lifting weights, most definitely. Well, I'm no different from him . . . that is, I have a few interesting things about me. Like . . . I've never lived in one place for longer than five years (and the one place that I did live in for five years was hell and made me never want to try it again, excuse me very much Anderson, South Carolina), I lived in Alaska as a child, I was directly across the street when the bomb went off at the Atlanta Olympics, I had three kids in four years, my third kid weighed 10.1 and was birthed by VBAC (if you don't know what that means then google it 'cause I'm not discussing that here), and I have never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever eaten a Big Mac (or a Whopper for you Burger King fans) ever. But the one thing that most people find most interesting about me is that I don't have cable and haven't had it for years.

What I do have is a digital antenna, a nifty piece of equipment that gives you hi-def channels for, F-R-E-E! I love that word! What's also great about this device is that you can turn it away from the signal or stand right in front of it during the Ryder Cup and drive your husband completely crazy with minimal effort. Fun!

As you have probably gathered from the fact that I don't have cable, I therefore am not a huge fan of the television and were it not for an elongated ball covered with pigskin and Ian Somerhalder, I would be quite content with no TV at all in my house.

But . . . there are some things that I know to be true.

1. I do have a TV in my house
   
2. Ian Somerhalder has quite the nice physique and smoldering (yes, I said it—smoldering) eyes
   
3. I heart Vampire Diaries
   
4. I am blogging about Vampire Diaries
   

I gotta admit that when I first heard of Vamp Di, I was quite the skeptic. I mean, seriously, aren't we trying a little too hard to ride the vampire bandwagon, people? But, one mere episode and I was hooked like a starving fish on twenty pound line. Though I admit that the abs and eyes were probably (okay, definitely) what drew me in, I gotta say that what is keeping me are the amazing characters and stellar storylines that are so unpredictable that they have me shouting, "OMG!"

I think I've come to understand that what I love more than anything is a sympathetic villain. I mean the good guys who always make the right decisions get very tedious in a very short period of time. And the bad guys who are always trying to create evil and chaos make me feel all dirty inside. But someone who messes up and sometimes messes up big, but still shows that he can be compassionate and kind, that's someone who looks kind of familiar to me—because, really, in true life, the lines between good and evil are blurry and shifting.

But let's talk about this whole vampire thing, shall we? What exactly is the appeal, mainly, for women? Do we want someone to love us so much that he literally wants to drink our blood? Is it just the age-old desire for the bad boy and, let's face it, our desire to make him turn his life around for us? Is it merely the escape from reality, the idea that a whole other world can exist right before our eyes? Maybe it's a combination of all of these. All I know is that I don't think the fang phenom is going away anytime soon and as long as the vamps all look like Ian Somerhalder, I don't really want it to.

You’re Dead and I’m Done

You're probably wondering what I'm reading right now, aren't ya? Well, fear not, you need no longer wonder, 'cause I'm gonna tell you. It's possible that compared with most writer-type-people (and definitely my husband), my taste in books is a little on the low-brow side. This doesn't bother me as much as it should. I think I'm beginning to understand that as my age progresses and my maturity level doesn't exactly progress along with it, that it's possible I may be a little shallow. But I'm okay with that. I have deep thoughts, I just don't have them that often and when I do, they make me giggle a bit.

So, it should come as no surprise that what I'm reading right now is Charlaine Harris' Dead and Gone, or . . . maybe it's Dead to the World, or . . . maybe Dead—It's the New Black, or . . . something like that—a Sookie Stackhouse novel. Clearly, since I'm on like the 100^th book in this series, I quite enjoy the little world that Harris has created and find her characters fun and amusing.

But . . . I'm sad to say that if I make it through this novel then I'm hanging up my Stackhouse Groupie Pants. I devoured the first several novels in the series and dreamed about them at night and thought about them when I wasn't reading them, but these last few I've had to choke down like dry turkey on Thanksgiving. It's like I know I should want the turkey because it's Thanksgiving and all and I'm eating it out of respect for the holiday, but I'm not really enjoying it. Or . . . maybe I just hope that the turkey will get right to the point and realize that she really loves Eric for crying out loud and stop sleeping with 7 foot tall bald men that turn into Tigers (gross)!!!!!!!

I think this is probably the normal reaction when you're reading a series like this. It's like a sitcom and we all know that Ross and Rachel can hook up, but they can't officially "get together" until the series finale. I get that this is what is happening in these books as well, but it's a lot easier to watch a story develop very slowly once a week for thirty minutes on television. It gets a little frustrating that after nine books Sookie still doesn't know if she loves Bill or Eric, or maybe she loves Sam, or maybe even Quinn (ewww!), or maybe even Alcide, she could love him ya know.

Also, each book has to stand alone, so with every book, Harris has to remind the reader what came before. It is quite tedious getting through that when you already know what came before. It's like listening to a person tell the same story over and over again because new people arrived at the party and they just have to hear it. Plus, I get the mystery/thrill of the books, but how many dead bodies can one person stumble upon??? I mean, I'm thirty-two and I've never seen one dead body outside of a funeral home. Is there something wrong with me? Why aren't people dying around me? How come no one I love ever dies? Why doesn't cool stuff ever happen to me? Clearly, I need a break.

So, goodbye Sookie, farewell, adieu, au revoir, gesundheit. And remember, we'll always have Dead until Dark.

So . . . I Guess I’m Blogging

Okay . So . . . yeah, apparently I'm blogging now. Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are about this fact. You see, what had happened was that I was straightening my hair this morning and as I picked up one mottled clump of hair and prepared to sizzle it between two extra hot plates of metal so that I could achieve the sleek straight hair that all of the magazines say I should desire, I suddenly said to myself, "I think I'll blog. Hmmm, good idea." (Not out loud of course, that would be crazy!) So here I am.

Hi.

I mean I signed up for this blog, like, a year ago and it's just been sitting here doing nothing. And it already had my name on it. See up there, yeah, that's me. And it also had all these nifty tidbits of info about me like . . . I really enjoy listening to Keane, and . . . I like to write, and . . . maybe sometimes I run, and stuff. So, I've got that going for me and that's good.

So . . . what to blog about? Hmm.

Well, let's start with me and go from there. On the outside, I am pretty much your typical mother of three stay-at-home-mom who drives a minivan and makes cupcakes that look like animals and sews my kids Halloween costumes whenever they let me and who almost always has a knitting project on my nightstand along with my paperback book and alarm clock that rings at 6:30 in the morning so that I can get up and iron for my husband, fix breakfast for my family that I can't eat because I'm always watching my waistline and pack lunches for everyone who is leaving the house and then I go to the gym because of the waistline again and get home and play Barbie and make lunch again and clean and cook and get the kids from the bus stop and then do homework while cooking and cleaning and keeping the other kids entertained and then do more cleaning and bathing and reading (for kids) and tucking in and set my alarm clock for 6:30 the next day. Sound familiar? You're probably thinking that you've met me many times in your life. But actually, I'm not that woman at all.

Well, who am I then? I like to think that I am a writer. I feel like I'm deluding myself if I say this, but it's true. I am. I am a writer. I've written three novels and am actively seeking representation for the third one. I still love the first two and am trying to revise them in the hopes that one day they too will be ready to make the query rounds. But even if my mom is the only one who reads these novels, that's still okay, because the joy of getting them published can only be marginally better than the joy I received from actually writing them. I have other hobbies as well to keep me occupied because I feel like I've been getting more and more stupider since I had children, but the writing is the king of the hobbies and is really less of a hobby and more of an obsession.

I feel a bit foolish for starting this blog. I have the same questions going through my head that I did when I wrote my first novel: Who cares? Who would want to read this? Why, oh why would they want to read it? But I got over that feeling around chapter 20, so maybe I'll get over this one too. We'll see!