It seems as though every other person on Earth and their Grandma have a blog these days, and every other person on Earth who actually writes regularly on their blog will proclaim that they are "working on a book". I guess I was different. The only thing that I've been working on is finding a new way to style my hair and to have someone else feed the dogs and clean my house. Sure, I write my stories but actually visualizing, plotting, and sitting my sorry butt down to write a real book? Hello? Who do you think I am, Erma Bombeck? I happen to really love my couch, and we have a solid date every night of the week. To quote a favorite song of mine, "Don't expect too much from me, and you might not be let down."
So, I have left this beautiful book made exclusively for my words to sit on the credenza, mocking me, reminding me that other people have higher hopes and aspirations for me than I have for myself. I touch it only when I dust, telling it to "stop looking at me like there might be a tiny writer inside waiting to get out." (That book is such a bitch sometimes.)
But something has been tugging at my
A few days ago I decided to approach my friend and ask if she would allow me to write a story about them for my blog. She quickly agreed, but I knew in the back of my mind that this was big, too big for one entry. Maybe two? Maybe five? Maybe make it into a saga that would string along for a year? There was so much to say that one brief article could never do it justice. Not one to ever work too hard, I kept turning this idea over in my head. "I can't write a book. I'm too damn lazy. Who am I kidding? I never finish anything." Then another thought kept pushing its way to the surface, replacing all of the others: "You HAVE to write this book. People need to know this story." (There was probably another voice in there telling me to stop watching so much TV and to log off of Facebook, but I'm not sure...)
So, I am...writing a book, that is.
My friend, who couldn't get the idea out of her head either, called me this morning, and we knew we were on to something. This young man and her family have changed the way that I - a Southern child born during the heat of the Civil Rights movement - view race relations in my small hometown.
I'm hoping that once I finish this major feat that may or may be on my bucket list, I will feel like I have earned the right to open this beautiful journal and write. For now, that book is looking at me and whispering, "Come on, girl...you can do it."