Pull Up a Swing...

Welcome to my front porch!

I'm so glad you dropped by, though I can't promise you what you'll find here--other than a jack-of-all-trades writer sitting on the swing with a cup of coffee in hand (most likely in a Bad Ass coffee mug, 'cause I like to pretend I am one).

You see, I'm new to the world of blogging, and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. As a former journalist and the daughter of a curmudgeonly newspaper editor who taught me the difference between "cute" and "clever" writing, part of me fears blogs cheapen the writing craft (anyone can have one -- right?). On the other hand, I have folders and folders full of the "this and thats" I've written through the years: personal essays, memoirs, short stories and, of course, melodramatic poetry (I write bad, bad poetry, but oh, how I love to do so).

Anyway, it has dawned on me that I am rapidly approaching 40, and I never quite realized my dream of becoming "a writer." The older I get, the more those folders taunt me.

Sure. I've written. I've even had work published here and there. But I never really had the guts to take the stuff in those folders and just... put it out there. Bottom line: I'm a chicken. When you write, part of YOU pours out onto the pages. The work might not necessarily be about me, but I can't deny that I'm in there somewhere--no matter the genre--because I gave birth to those words and ideas. The idea of taking the work I breathed my life into and sending it out to some anonymous, bored editor's assistant to "yay" or "nay" is daunting to say the least. So, for the most part, I haven't sent my work anywhere. Like I said, I'm a chicken (the KFC kind on steroids, though my breasts, sad to say, never got that big).

Anyway, the older I get, the more ridiculous it seems to hold onto those folders and keep them to myself (after you read some of my work, you might differ. Do me a favor, and keep that to yourself. It's just a blog, people!). Recently, I've been blessed to be encouraged by friends, family and fellow creative souls to get over my inhibitions and PUT IT OUT THERE.

Even my sweet little 7-year-old boy said, "Mom, I wish you would write stories again. I would really love to read them."

Dang. That kid got to me.

So why the heck not? It's not like I'm selling my body down at my local Crackhead Chevron, (though I haven't ruled that out if this blogging thing doesn't prove fortuitous). I can do this, right?

So -- here I sit on the porch (fyi: I'm a professional porch sitter and proud of it). I love my swing, where I sit, breathe, watch, learn and listen. It's where ideas are born for me; I invite you to share those.

You'll probably find a little bit of everything here on the porch. Honestly, I'm a writing slut. As I've followed a football coach husband around Kentucky, I've taken whatever jobs allowed me to write and still earn a paycheck. I've worked in newsrooms, liberal arts college public relations offices and middle school language arts classrooms. I've free-lanced from my kitchen table on numerous occasions, and most recently, I've perfected the art of updating my facebook status, though I haven't figured out how to get paid for that. (I haven't yet written a letter to Penthouse Forum, but I think I'd be good at it.)

Here on the porch, I might share sappy essays or memoirs; my daily goofy thoughts (I'm a veritable gold mine of those!); family notes; pissy rants about the demise of common courtesy and good TV; or poetry.

I don't know yet.

But I'm glad you've joined me for the experience, whatever it might be.

Pull up a swing, and get comfy. I'll pour you a cup of coffee.