I am between what feels like a rock and a hard place lately, the desire, no the need to write warring with the fear of putting it all out there anymore.  There are a lot of things going on in my life right now, and have been-some good, some bad, the way life tends to be. I have always used this platform as a place to process things as they occur, a place to feel less alone or isolated or whatever word you want to ascribe to it.  However, something a friend of mine said via email awhile back really hit me; I was telling this person something that was going on and this person said,”You have no right to expect people to be happy for you; you have put too much of your life out there for people to see.” Well. That pretty well sums it all up, doesn’t it?  I have spoken too openly, too often, about how I feel about things, therefore I feel too stifled to say things now. It doesn’t make any sense, but there you go.

 Also, as another friend and I were talking (she loves me enough to keep sending me these different writing opportunities, even though I am feeling as if that dream is long, long gone), that dumb review over at Ask and Ye Shall Receive really threw me for a loop-not because my writing was criticized, but because my family, my life, were drug through the mud. I can handle my writing and delivery being criticized, but some of the things said about my family, and echoed by the people who read that blog (who, I might add, probably never actually read any of my posts, but bygones, right?), were simply cruel and uncalled for, and that really made me wary of putting anything out there.  It isn’t their fault, don’t get me wrong-just like people slow down to watch a gruesome car wreck, some people profit because others are small-minded and cruel-that is the way of life. And yes, of course I asked for it, right, so no whining. Got that. Regardless, it threw me off track and made me question everything I had ever written about anything.

This has meant so much to me; too much, perhaps, if my emotional state regarding writing is any indicator. I used to say that I write in order to keep from going crazy, and I haven’t written anything of consequence in a very long time-I suppose you can reach your own conclusions about that. So I am missing it, feeling the need, but not having any idea anymore what is and is not okay for me to say. Which also perhaps prove that I am not, in fact, a writer; my skin is too thin, at least lately.

So this is practice, to see if I am still capable of being honest and real here, since that is what I have always striven to be.  I don’t know if I have it in me anymore, so here goes nothing.



Our doctor was checking for cancer in Owen yesterday. He does NOT have cancer, but some inexplicable viral infection that seems to have taken over his little body. He is still ill, but he does not have cancer. Life is good.