Off We Go

Dear Internet,

Hello. I’ve never greeted you before, have I? I’ve used you, in such exciting capacities as Facebooking, Googling my own name, and deleting emails that warn me to forward something if I’m not ashamed of Jesus. But I feel guilty now, Internet, because nobody ever talks to you. How are you? Overloaded, overcrowded, spammy? I know. Let it all out. I’m going to make you feel loved and appreciated again, by writing to you as often as I can… in a blog. Because I know what you really need is even more details about the minutiae of everyday life. You’re welcome, Internet.

I’m doing it for you, but in many ways for myself: to be more intentional about recording the fleeting days of my sons’ childhood, to make like the Cranberries circa 1993 and say Everyone Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?, but mostly to force myself to write on a regular, public basis. I need to write, like I need to dance, like I need to eat and sleep. I have no designs of doing any of these professionally (except “professional sleeper”—that job will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine), but I’m just an all-around happier person when they find expression somewhere.

So I’ll put my daily (or near-daily) nuggets of writing out there, for all (or some) to see. Which is kind of terrifying, isn’t it? I critique writing as a teacher all the time, but I think I’ve lost sight of what it’s like to be on the other side of the ink: fretfully sending my little word-children into the world, hoping they find acceptance out there… or at least avoid getting pummeled by playground bullies.

Not that I want you to go easy on the quality, Internet—most writing deserves a good, constructive beating (now you’re thinking, “wow, I bet it’s awesome to be her student/child!”), so feel free to give the comment section a few light slams once in awhile, or contribute your ideas, or just lurk creepily in the shadows, like I do on the blogs I read. Just enjoy the yummy nuggets.

What not to expect

A theme. I don’t really have enough to say about any one topic, so cohesion is not likely. Coherence is also in question.

Original content. That “words as children” metaphor up there? Total Anne Bradstreet rip-off—her figurative Puritan word-children had “blemished” faces, wore irksome “home-spun cloth,” and “run’st more hobbling than is meet.” And my real-life children have chocolate on their faces, sport self-chosen camouflage/Hawaiian print outfit combos, and trip over flat surfaces. Parallels! Most things I’ll write will be derivative, recycled, and rehashed, like a nuked tater tot casserole. Yum.

Overshare. Don’t expect a detailed account of my bowel movements or sex life here—those private nuggets are reserved for my facebook status updates.

What to expect

Wayne’s World quotes—see above.

Party On,
Garth