Even though I’m not a big commenter (mostly that writing thing) I do try to read. Even before I had to learn to conserve my words I never felt like my writing FIT in any neat little labeled box.
It’s not bad. I’m proud of it. The way a mom is proud of drawings she keeps on the fridge.
I’ve always felt it was less about telling people how I felt and more about being able to make them feel it for themselves. Immersing readers in the experience of my life.
Cancer. Laughing. Parenting. Strokes. Feeling broken, body or soul.
I guess it’s one of the reasons I’m glad to be a blogger. To write my heart. My way. My typos. No one telling me it’s not right or that it’s suppose to be a certain way.
It’s kind of funny when people talk about their “writing process” .I have none. My process involves Pandora, forcing myself away from Words With Friends and prying the kids off the computer.
I’m very conscious of the other people in my house. Most blogging parents have had their kids ask “Is that going on your blog?” I respect that their lives are not lived to be material for my writing. I try to keep things personal to me, my reactions to situations, the replies are to my take on events.
I have kids that have literally grown up with me as a writer. They know they are often the subjects of my posts, social media updates and pictures but I don’t ever want them to look back and be embarrassed over something I wrote about them.
Random post? Probably.