Friday, February 25, 2011

Ms. F. Quibbler

Last night:

I sit down on my comfy sofa, pen in hand, pad on lap to write.


To write.


Yes. Write.

You can't write.

What do you mean I can't write? I've got paper. I've got a pen.

When's the last time you wrote anything?

Hey, that's only 'cuz I listen to you.

Okay, so write something.

Okay. I will.

. . . .thinking. . . .thinking. . . . .thinking. . . . .

I can't think of anything to write about. I'll write tomorrow.

See. I told you.

My husband and I often have conversations on a wide range of topics. Many times I walk away uttering the words, "I should write a blog post." I rarely do. A variety of reasons could explain why but most often it is merely me getting in my own way. I hear that roaring voice bellowing in the background telling me that I can't write, or that no one is really interested in what I might have to say on any given topic. Doubt leads to guilt and days, weeks and sometimes months pass with not a word typed.

So here I sit at midnight on my comfy sofa, wearing my cozy sweats, pen in hand, pad on lap, listening to the rain and murmurs of snores coming from the back of the house where my husband sleeps. How long will it last and will I feel compelled to simply sleep on the couch?

Ah crap. I'll write tomorrow.


  1. >Ha!! I love this and wish you would write more. I would definitely read it. Waiting for more..... Caren

  2. >Thanks Caren. So sweet of you. I'll see about shoving Ms. F. Quibbler into a very cramped box. :)


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