Friday, May 10, 2013

This.

Whelp.

It took 38 years to make the decision to give this a go. Admittedly, leaving it a bit late. But definitely not TOO late.

I blame a woman called Ann Ahalt.

In 6th grade, I had a life threateningly embarrassing teacher crush. The weird, non-sexual ones that kids get on adults who give them exactly what they need at the moment that they need it. Mrs. Ahalt shamelessly encouraged my writing talent at a time when I felt that my entire existence boiled down to knees, elbows, braces and the unfortunate haircut I'd been saddled with since 5th grade. (And maybe the slightly less non-sexual crush that I had on Matt Barger.)

Something I wrote was entered into a contest, which won me and my glorified deity of an educator a place at an awards dinner where I thought that I might just expire from pure pride. This, I thought, it's all about THIS.

To this day, writing still makes me forget about knees, (which ache sometimes) elbows (small ones, that I find in my face when I wake up) and my unfortunate haircut. (It's actually falling out.) As for Matt Barger, I hope he realizes what a freaking 11 year old catch he missed out on all those years ago.

When it comes to authorship, I'm a toppings kind of girl. At least, up until now, the writing I've done is like the fixings at the all-you-can-eat sundae bar. I liked the bits that make the ice cream look pretty, the details, rather than having to stand there and laboriously pull the handle to create the swirly framework. But, without the ice cream, you have a whole load of toppings in a bowl with nothing to stick to. (Plus, gummy bears and M&Ms are revolting together, no matter WHAT my eldest daughter believes.) I have yet to create the perfect sundae.

But now I'm committed, see?

The handle of my soft machine is kind of shit, if I'm honest. The pressure is bad, I manage to only get small dollops out at a time and sometimes there's an air bubble and I end up with sticky stuff all over my shirt. Annoyingly, sometimes I decide that I want a different flavor halfway through, so I have to go back and change the mixture. (Just like my commitment to writing, I committed to this metaphor two paragraphs ago, okay? I'm going to see it through.) However, it is MY soft serve machine and if I want a banana split, I'm going to have to keep at it.

Okay, I'm done with that now.

So pull up a cone, I guess, and stick around.

(Really done.)

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