HOW TO WRITE YOUR FIRST BLOG IN YOUR FIRST-EVER BLOG SPACE

You have a half-hour to write.

You’re in a busy coffee shop, one that you’ve never been to before. You get your order, you luck into a comfortable chair.  You push the button, the laptop powers on, and settles itself.

It’s ready. You’re ready.  Time to start writing.

You notice the picture on your laptop. It’s fuzzy. Pixilated. It doesn’t really fit on the desktop. This bothers you. This bothers you more than the fact that your first-ever blog goes online tomorrow.

You dig around in your pictures folder and find a photo that you took a couple of years ago of a beautiful Dia de las Muertos altar.

A friend who doesn’t often compliment you complimented you on this photo, and how you “cartoonized” it. You set the picture of the altar as your new desktop of your laptop. It looks great.

Hmmm. But maybe…it’s too…busy?

Whoops. There went ten minutes. Time to write.

You sip your latte, and double-click the icon you renamed “Werd,” a tiny in-joke that never ceases to amuse only you.

The program opens, you sip your latte and ready yourself, and the cursor goes

Blink
Blink
Blink

You type a word, then a few words, and then

CTRL+Backspace
CTRL+Backspace
CTRL+Backspace

You type a word, or maybe another few words, and the cursor goes

Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink

You will write today. You are determined. You will not be distracted by the ultra-dapper guy next to you, the one who looks so much like a friend of yours, if that friend was 40 years younger. The friend that you were, coincidentally, just thinking about this morning, the guy who said that you should wear white because white reflects, “Whatever they say, no matter what they think, it doesn’t matter, it all bounces back on them, what they are and what they say, back on them.”

You note with some concern that you are today wearing all black.

You sip latte and settle in, trying not to listen to the middle-aged woman perched in the comfortable chair across from you, the one who’s talking non-stop on her cell phone, discussing diversity in the workplace, her “bio,” and her “going-rate,” and her “experience and familiarity with home investors, H.R., and training.”

My god, does she never take a breath?! You try not to listen.  You try not to get distracted. You try not to turn her into a jack-in-the-box and wish her into the cornfield.

You try not to hear her forced cackle, and her “You’re hilarious!” and “You’re wonderful!” You try not to wonder if she’s able to be sincere anywhere in her job or her life. This leads you then to wonder if your own laughter and camaraderie comes off this hollow at work.

You wish for the 63rd time that you were plugged into Furry Potato, your beloved iPod that went through the wash cycle. You wish that you could find FP2, the iPod got from a pawn shop to replace the very clean and forever silent Furry Potato. FP2 is lost somewhere in your house. Hopefully, not in the washing machine.

And the cursor goes

Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink

You look across the way, at the chubby elementary-age boy and girl, their overweight mother and very tall father, and you wonder why these children are not in school. Are these people just more of those ultra-conservative, middle-class whites who seem to be everywhere nowadays? The people who home-school for fear that their children’s ever-lovin’ minds will be blown by exposure to public schools and the world outside church and home?

Or, are they traveling, passing through, or here on vacation? Or maybe they’re in town to visit someone, a loved one, someone who’s sick in the hospital, or dying? Though they don’t have that look, the one you’re all-too familiar with, that stunned, poleaxed expression.

You remember last night and the visit to the friend’s bedside in ICU, the breathing machines and the monitors, and how you withstood it, being present at yet-another bedside, listening, looking, trying not to react like your brain was screaming you should. And, how unfair life it is when putting on the gloves and the gown is so familiar to you.

And you realize now that you’re still there, part-way, and how the past is the present, and now the coffee’s gone cold, and the cursor says

Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink
Blink

Your half-hour is up. Time to move on.

You shut down the computer and you sigh, aloud, and you remind yourself, again, that this blog won’t write itself.

Advertisements

About Vicki Caroline Cheatwood

Writerly. Rebooting. Evolving. Searching for great chicken salad.
This entry was posted in Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s