Writing a blog, that is.

I’ve been a writer in one form or another since I was eight years old and wrote an elaborate funeral service for my doll Susu. That was followed 2 years later by my first screenplay about a horse farm in Kentucky, aptly titled, “The Horse Farm.” I still have blue ink mimeographed copies of this manuscript. It comes out every few years during visits to my parents when we are in need or want of a good gut-busting laugh. I’m not going to embarass myself with the contents of the dialog here, and besides, one day that original work could very well be worth a fortune or land in the special collections department of your local library. Suffice to say that if you utter the words, “mity, mity’” in the vicinity of my mom and dad, they will break into outright giggles.

But blogs are different. They are supposed to say something, and I’m not sure yet that I have something worth saying. I have almost 30 years of journals stored in my office and a stack of notecards with clever ideas written in one line summaries across each page, all waiting to come to life in the short stories that sit like chapters in the book of my mind. But does anyone really want to read this stuff?

Maybe, maybe not. Maybe the point isn’t whether anyone will want to read anything I write or not. Maybe the point is that having this blog gives me the outlet and therefore the motivation to take a long stewing idea or a passing thought and expand on it to see where it will go.  And isn’t that the basic point of creativity? To stretch it, bend it, reach it, push it, pull it, expand it, breath it, past preconceived limitations and predetermined outcomes? If there is truly no original idea, then what is there to lose?

Several years ago I moved across country and for many months sent my friends a morning email with a “quote of the day.” I found out later that most of my friends were merely being polite and tolerated the email but normally threw it away. However two or three people made a point of telling me, after I’d stopped the ritual, how much they enjoyed reading whatever quote I’d discovered, because it gave them both insight into how I was doing at that particular time and allowed them to think about something they would not have considered otherwise. One of the last emails I sent was shortly after I returned back to Virginia Beach, and I’m including that here below. If you like it, maybe I’ll share a little bit of “The Horse Farm” with you. Maybe.

“By means of water we give life to everything.”
The Koran (from “Permission to Play” by Jill Murphy Long)

Since being back in Virginia Beach I have begun to walk every morning with a friend. We go 6.5 miles through the trails in the state park behind my house, where there is no traffic, only the trees, the sky, an occasional biker or runner (or snake), and us. We do a lot of talking. After the walk, which is quite longer than what I am used to doing, my legs and back ache. But my friend has introduced me to her daily ritual of rejuvenation: we run through the sand to the to the ocean’s edge, strip down to our bathing suits and throw ourselves into the surf. For the next 1/2 hour or so, it is just me and the water, relaxing my body and invigorating my soul. I do not swim well. But I can paddle through the surf, and I can float, and lying there with my eyes closed, sun shining through my lids, hearing the pounding of the surf and feeling the waves lift me as they pass, truly brings me back to myself and my connection with the earth and my place within it. It is a great way to start the day. Even if you do not have the ocean at your doorstep, there are ways to make the most of your morning before the world hits . . .go outside as the sun comes up, stand in your yard barefoot, and feel your feet in the wet grass. (You can take your coffee with you . . . it is a nice break from the newspaper). Listen to what you hear outside before you join the noise . . . listen to what you hear inside before you join the noise.  9.23.05