I love how all my posts begin with my shock at the fact that I’m actually writing. It’s like I’m a proud and surprised parent shouting “Look, Timmy’s going poo poo on the potty!” Look, Angela’s writing all by herself! Good job, Angela. You’re such a big girl. Here’s your sticker.
Yeah, it’s just where I am, I guess. I mean maybe that’s not such a bad way to look at it. I did eventually learn to use the potty and I’ve never reverted back to diapers. I learned to walk so successfully that I never get the urge to go down on all fours, unless at my husband’s request. I’ve been talking now since age 18 months. Yeah, looking over my milestones gives me real hope as a writer.
Maybe, in a few years, I’ll laugh at my memories of shaky fingers on keys, murderous self doubt and breaking into a cold sweat at the thought of writing anything. Even though, my heart tells me I’m meant to be a writer. If only I had an easier mission like lunchroom lady or HVAC technician or real estate sign holder or U.S. vice president. I mean those things could be accomplished rather quickly. Come to think of it, writing doesn’t even require that. It simply requires reading a lot and writing a lot (with the hopes of getting better.) Gosh, I hope no one reads this.
I met John Chatham’s wife today at church. She was one of those perfect not a hair out of place kind of women, who, even at seven months pregnant, sitting on the toilet could pose for a Vogue Magazine cover. As I was attempting idle chit chat with her I caught a glimpse of all 27 of my feminine inadequacies reflected in her shimmery copper lip gloss. Her lips stunningly and unabashedly matched the copper sparks in her ebony mane of hair, which moved with the grace of professional synchronized swimmers. It was as if each hair on her head knew exactly when to follow the others, as if they held practices each afternoon at 4PM sharp, in which she bobbed her head from side to side, and swept it right to left. If a single hair dared move out of place or prematurely, it would immediately be plucked and another more cooperative one would grow instantaneously to full maturity in its place.
I have to go meditate now about the great writer I am. According to some ghost named Abraham, who talks through a woman named Ester, the universe is making it happen as we speak. Oh, Universe, could you bring me a hot fudge sundae too while you’re at it, oh, and make my bed, and slow down the hair growth on my legs, and don’t forget the sundae?