I’m a crappy blogger.
Which leads to being a crappy writer.
This hasn’t always been the case. I used to blog daily, about everything I said and did and thought and wanted and wished. While it was therapeutic, I’m sure it got tedious to read.
Now, not so much. The tedium is in my lack of anything to say.
Or rather, maybe I have things to say but I don’t have the gumption to say them. Or the avenue. Or, let’s face it – maybe I am lacking the metaphorical balls I once possessed. I used to be completely unafraid of what people thought of anything that I said.
Now? Now I have a husband who works in a church. What if I said “balls” one too many times (I mean, that’s twice in just this post) and offended someone?
Now I have a job that I pretty much can’t talk about at all. Legally. Hospitals and patients and stuff – and even if I could, I wouldn’t have much interesting to say. So a great deal of my creativity might go into covering up the fact that there’s an 8-hour black hole in my day.
Now I’m almost 16 weeks pregnant and most things and people annoy me. I’m fairly sure that reading a list of my annoyances would not appeal to most people.
Now I have a lot of questions about my life, and to be honest, I don’t feel that I should. I feel foolish in that I will soon be a mother of three, and there are days that I don’t know who I really am.
I signed up for NaBloPoMo, since I don’t have a computer at home and can’t do the novel version. So, hello again.