Oh dear lord. In ten* years of blogging I don’t believe I have ever done anything quite as ill-advised as what I have just done. Not that there has ever been some kind of advisor hanging around in my kitchen giving me blogging advice between mouthfuls of leftover Chinese take-out — it’s not like I have a secret Vizier whispering, “perhaps a few less dog photos” or anything.
No– my patterings here have always been born completely of my own random impulses– but as impulses go, this one really has me reaching for the reading glasses to peer more closely at the screen to say, THE HELL? What the hell did I just do?
People, I signed up for NaBloPoMo. Yes, I did.
Let’s just hope week three doesn’t have me writing my obituary.
Although, wait– that could be cool.
Of course if I were really cool, I’d be wearing my Fussy t-shirt (you’ll have to scroll all the way to the bottom to see it) as I type this to you– but all my summer clothes are packed away— I did that big season shift last weekend including changing out the front door screen with the storm window—
I am ready for you, November.
Oddly, it doesn’t feel in the least bit frightening. Not at all. More like mysterious, unknown. Completely obscured in mist. And Miss Smartypants herself says, “oh yeah, you are so imago.” And I was all “I’m a wha-wha?”
It’s the time when the caterpillar is no longer a caterpillar but not yet a butterfly. It is, in a word, mush. It is the last stage of the metamorphosis and is often called the imaginal stage.
Isn’t that AWESOME? The imaginal stage . . . I love that. In fact, I love it so much there is a danger I might hang out here for a long, long time just being goop and whiling away the years imagining stuff. That is kind of my m.o., if you recall . ..
Thus—> NaBloPoMo. I need to get that petri dish of jelly shaking. And I promise you, nothing scares the pants off me more than the commitment to write 30 days in a row, publicly. I am not someone who plans out my writing or edits it or does anything to protect myself except, um, you know– not write . . . so there is no doubt in my mind this is gonna force me to be more exposed and dig deeper than I have in terms of blogging.
Can I do it? Only one way to find out.
As much as I think I am going to find this hard, frustrating, scary and thump-myself-on-the-head stupid — I am feeling some excitement. It reminds me of when I did The Artist’s Way for the first time. So much huge life change came out of that . .. stuff I couldn’t ever have predicted or anticipated. And so– here goes —
Either there’s gonna be a brick wall of support helping me through or I’m gonna be driving head first into said brick wall.
Or, I could take a sip of my own pollyanna certified lemonade and imagine an easy passage through, a wander, as it were into new territory that is neither frightening nor difficult — merely a discovery of new vistas.
*10<–! ten YEARS, people! Okay, I lie– it will BE ten years in March . . but ten sounds so much more impressive than 9 years and 8 months, wouldn't you agree?