Yes I can, Mary I am!
If you have ever gone to the “About” page on this site (or you can go now)(take your time, I’ll wait)……the first sentence reads: “I am not a professional writer, I have not taken creative writing classes, I do not have best.blogger.ever expectations.” It’s all true, even the lack of best blogger expectation. I’m here to simply clear the incessant thoughts about life that pop into my crusty brain and, at the same time, entertain a few readers with cat stories and flowery ten–cent descriptive
How am I doing so far?
I don’t remember life as an avid reader during childhood and teenage years, other than the Dick & Jane series, Dr. Seuss books, the words of Laura Ingalls Wilder and those that were given out as assignments in school – Mark Twain, Harper Lee, and other classics like Moby Dick. Mom and dad were not avid readers, so perhaps by model that is one of the reasons I preferred hanging out with friends to sitting at home with War and Peace. Funny, though, English was the favored subject in high school. I had madd skillz. I knew gerunds, adverbs and past participles like the back of my hand. I could spell circles around peers and understood the structure of a sentence. I nearly failed at algebra, but English and spelling were always dear friends.
At the end of high school, I had no clear idea of who I wanted to be as an adult and did not entertain a fervent path toward writing. Thoughts engaged over veterinary school, except that I didn’t grow up with pets other than Yertle and Myrtle the turtles and a few goldfish (no names here, only memories of flushing the dead ones). I fared better at science than algebra, but without real time experience with cats or dogs, I tossed that idea aside. I took a test for a state government job and went on my way into marriage and adulthood.
The reading habits did not improve over the next 30 years, unless you count the daily newspaper, Reader’s Digest, Cooking Light, a nutrition newsletter and an occasional read of fiction. I remember pouring over the Dune series by Frank Herbert in my twenties. Those books contained a plethora of ten-cent words that I did not understand, but I kept turning the pages, not to be vanquished by Mr. Herbert’s words or a deadly worm. I don’t know why I did not avidly read during this period of life. Perhaps it was the perpetuation of a loud TV by a then husband who was hard of hearing (makes it hard to think, let alone read). Perhaps it was the never-stay-at-home-on-the-weekend lifestyle. Perhaps I was lazy or the attention deficit was running amok. In any light, I wish I would have made a better effort to wrap my head around literature – for the journey and the effect it may have had on writing.
Now, in my fifties, I read and blog. I try to read anyhow – in between work and play, family and friends, cat shenanigans and Dancing With the Stars. I prefer to write when I get home from work, read before I go to bed.
Two years ago, I knew a couple of people who wrote blog posts. These two are talented writers, intelligent people, who silently led me to contemplate the palate of a blog. I had many thoughts running between the ear lobes and they were screaming to get out, to spell words in the form of a newly single, cat lady life. At work, I had been writing a monthly health and wellness email to our employees, but there wasn’t much room for creativity. Just the facts ma’am. No cat pictures. No flowery, ten-cent words. Just facts. The emails weren’t boring, but they weren’t Mardi Gras either. I mulled over the blogging thing for many months.
You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself
Any direction you choose.
Right. I chose to write. I pulled out the nouns and verbs, bought a couple of self-help books, held my breath, turned blue, and finally let air and brain matter spill out onto the computer screen. Initial results were good and I found true enjoyment from the written word. And I kept going. Writing. There is no method to the posts that hold court within Mary J Melange. There IS some madness. I write words that come from life and the heart. I try to be funny without being stupid. I tell stories of mom and girlfriends. I try to throw in a ten-cent word and a hairy cat tale. I have no idea what I’m doing and, yet, I do. Blogging…writing…seems to have morphed into a passion that is severely embraced. Writing has taken the computer hostage and refuses to leave. I don’t mind at all.
Unfortunately, though, I must untie the binds and leave this post. This can be the most difficult part to write. Ending on a good note, wrapping it up, making sense of the last several hundred words of nonsensical self-indulgence. It’s also becoming way too difficult to cleverly write, click between two TV shows and text with a friend. Time to give these tired fingers and several letters a rest.
I am Mary, I am
Don’t forget to eat your green eggs and ham
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