Black Fly in Your Chardonnay

22 May

I wrote this a few weeks ago:

“I want to be a writer. I think. Except, lately my view of writers has been changing. For many years, my image of an author was a cross between Jo March of Little Women, staying up late into the night, scribbling feverishly as she passionately weaves meaningful tales and Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City, sitting cross-legged on her bed in front of a laptop, typing up witty observations on everyday life.

But my new job as a substitute teacher has freed up time for me to browse the internet while students study or test. After I add 50 new items to my wish list on half.com, I usually wander over to a favorite blog. But blogs are like potato chips: you cant read just one. I find myself on a binge of links, checking out the blogs of bloggers’ friends. Then I follow even more links on their pages to articles they’ve written for literary webjournals.

At first, I gobbled up their writing. I loved peeking into their normal yet somehow fascinating lives, awed by their ability to spin wildly funny tales out of the cloth of mundane experiences. We were connected by a common thread; that tiny flame in each of us that declares quietly with each flicker: “I am a writer.”

I wanted to fully join this community. I wanted to launch my own blog, write about my own friends and jobs and vacations and failures and pets. I wanted to be embraced by thousands of cyber arms and hailed as a magnificent writer.

However, after a few weeks, I realized once again that blogs are like potato chips: you can’t live on them. I found myself hungry for some meaty classics, some fresh prose, some rich poetry.

I don’t want to be a writer who produces potato chip pieces, that are tasty but leave my readers thirsty and unsatisfied. My desire is to dish up stories that readers can savor like a five-course meal, pushing back from the table with a contented sigh and remembering it with a wistful fondness for days afterward.

Im not a cook. I will probably never be able to create such a meal. But I am a writer. And I will continue to whip up batches of words to hopefully satisfy the souls of loved ones and strangers alike.

All this writing has made me hungry. I could really go for a bag of Lay’s and a couple of fresh blogs.”

And then, against my better judgment, I created a blog anyway. So even though I still feel like it’s presumptuous to think people care that much about your thoughts and feelings and opinions, but here it is! At the very least it will sharpen my writing skills. Enjoy!

 P.S. If you haven’t figured it out, the title of this post alludes to this song.

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One Response to “Black Fly in Your Chardonnay”

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Blah Blah Blog. « Eeper - April 10, 2008

    […] a funky single life in New York” twist, or whatever.  But they’re all the same.  And like I said way back when I started my blog (okay, it was only a year ago), I likened blogs to potato chips.  […]

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