Some nights I don’t want to blog. Some nights I just want to go to bed, spend a moment with my husband before he starts to snore, snuggle down with a book, and just relax. But the blog calls, the readers call, the words itch to get out, so I turn on the computer and load up Blogger, and I wait for inspiration to hit.
Sometimes it does and I get right to work. Sometimes it does and I start to write and then get sidetracked by Twitter, and come back to the blog, then Twitter some more, then pretty fast it’s really, really late, but I have a good blog post so it’s ok. And then, some nights inspiration doesn’t come. I know what I want to write, have a vague idea of how I want to say it, but every paragraph I start feels stilted, boring, just plain wrong. So I delete paragraph after paragraph, spend a ton of time on Twitter, come back, try again, then go back to Twitter, and try again, until it’s all of a sudden really, really late, only this time I have nothing to show for it.
Those are the nights when I fall back on C and Little L’s words and antics. I figure that if I can’t blow the world away with my prose I can at least entertain my readers with something my children say or did. And if no-one is entertained the worst I’ve done is take up a bit of space on the Internet with a fond memory, could be worse, right?
Tonight I have brilliant things I want to say about the Tinkerbell movie, but I just can’t figure out how to get started. I think I need to sleep on it, you know, after I spend some time chatting with my husband and reading a bit.