Do you have the time to listen to me whine?

Last night I was watching TV when I realized, "Crap, I need to write a blog post for today yet" -- and I was filled with dread. There's a reason I normally only update this thing once or twice a week -- I don't have anything to write about. Or I will find myself sitting, staring at the laptop and trying to think of something to write, only to delete what little I actually do write because I think what I'm writing is stupid, or not funny, or pointless.

I don't know if it's parenthood, or stay-at-home-mom-hood, or just the ebb and flow of the life of a writer, but I feel like I'm stuck in the quagmire of a writer's block. So while I was slumped on the couch watching the same episode of Rock of Love Charm School for the umpteenth time, I glanced at the laptop and wondered, "Why in the blue fuck did I think it was a good idea to do this NaBloPoMo ridiculousness again?"

Because I used to be a writer. I used to be a good writer. Like, I'd get a she-boner from my writing, and was admittedly very full of my self about it. I went to school for journalism and prided myself on my abilities. My writing was going to get me a book deal, or at the very least, get me the hell out of the midwest, and I was going to be famous.

Then some shit hit the fan, life took some strange twists and turns, and by some strange career detour I wound up a stay-at-home mom with a blog. And I'll be honest with you -- 98% of the time I think my blog sucks. I don't know why people read it, and I'm not saying this to fish for compliments. I really don't think I'm funny, and I don't think anything I write is good anymore, I just think the blog looks too good to neglect for weeks on end. My relationship with this blog is like a dysfunctional sex-driven relationship with a guy you're not even sure you like. But when the sex is good, it's amazing, so that's why you keep coming over to watch boring kung fu movies and have pointless conversations. It's why you suffer through awkward attempts at oral sex, experimentation, fake most of your orgasms, and try not to think too much about how bad it sucks -- because when the sex is good, it's ri-goddamn-diculously amazing.

That's how I feel about this blog, and more importantly, about my writing.

There was a point in time not too horribly long ago that someone very important told me to reconsider my career direction, and insinuated I shouldn't write anymore. The details are unimportant, but I always hear that nagging voice and see her smug smile when I start to write. Sometimes I can ignore it, most of the time I can't. It's why I sit and think, "Maybe I shouldn't write" -- and then in true form, I get pissed at the notion of being told what to do (and, more appropriately, what not to do) and deliberately go against it. But sometimes -- okay, a lot of times -- I feel like I'm only writing to prove others wrong, not for myself. Not to showcase my talent (or what's left of it, I often feel it's withered away into poop jokes and overused curse words), or share real, deep thoughts. Just to show that I can.

Even when I was at the height of my writing "career," I was notoriously insecure about my writing. I'd have tantrums as I tried to hammer out columns and news stories. Notoriously horrible tantrums that anyone who was around me knew when to avoid me. But I was usually able to mask my insecurities by shitting out genius, and convincing others that it's what I thought it was. But now I don't even feel that I have the actual skill to back it up -- I don't even remotely believe it. I think my writing's shit.

I sit and stare at the screen a lot of times when I start writing, wondering if anyone even cares what I think. Sometimes I want to write something prolific and deep, maybe dive into deeper parts of me than discussing my taint scar, tell you about me as a person, and I just clam up. I don't know if I can get that personal on here. If I do -- I'm not ruling it out, I'm really not, it's just a matter of coming to terms with myself -- it will be a pretty big deal. I won't even tell you guys where I live, my name, my husband's name, my daughter's name. I can tell you about my bowel movements and the most disgusting things that can come as a result of parenthood, but I can't even tell you my name or show you a real picture of me. I'm just weird, I guess.

So my point. I had one here when I started. Oh yeah. I really want to get back in "shape" for writing, so in the coming month, please bear with me if my writing gets too pompous, too weird, or too different from the voice you're used to hearing. I think I can do this. Maybe. If not... we'll never speak of this again.