And so it begins

I suppose it would be comical if it weren’t so ridiculous the way I feel about this book.

“Write a book,” the voice inside me says.

“About what” my own voice says back.

“Just write, it’ll come to you,”

“Well isn’t that ridiculous.” I say.

“And also, WHY? To hear myself talk? Because I think I’ve been granted all wisdom? I don’t know my ‘audience’. I don’t have money to throw at some “book”…. My voice is so persistent.

“Look,” says my voice. “The stove needs to be cleaned. And the toilet in the bathroom downstairs, because although Halle is sweet, and tries hard she DOES go to the School of the Blind, so how clean can she really get it?”

And so I promise that I will sit down for thirty minutes and write. Thirty minutes, This was actually a goal I set for myself at this conference I went to. I had to make a one week goal. I said, “I’ll write for thirty minutes.” Oh wait – I forgot to look at the time on the clock. 2:53 – I probably started writing at 2:50 – (let’s go with that). That conference was three weeks ago, but seriously, I’ve been busy. And truthfully, I was planning on purchasing a laptop to do all this writing on. And I haven’t. And so I’m siting in a very uncomfortable chair – no, NOT a chair, it’s a bench. An OLD bench, and so it makes my back hurt to sit here for any period of time and I’ve committed to thirty minutes of uninterrupted writing time, so I’m stuck here. And I forgot my glasses (that I don’t like at all for a MYRIAD of reasons) and I cannot go downstairs to get them, because I most assuredly would stop and clean the toilet that I don’t even care about, but is now driving me crazy.

I grew up a child of the idyllic 70’s. What a childhood I had. We lived in one of those amazing neighborhoods – kids EVERYWHERE. There was an elementary school literally down the road where I went to Kindergarten – Riverside. I walked to school by myself (I know – those carefree, crazy 70’s!). My dad was a high school teacher in a small town called Pequot Lakes and we lived in Brainerd, Minnesota. He carpooled everyday with three other teachers – I didn’t think a thing about that growing up, but looking back now I have to say, “How cool was my dad”. He was progressive and thrifty. And honestly, I bet it made it a lot easier to go to work everyday. People were counting on you to pick them up, and you had friends to commiserate with on the way there and the way back. Plus, you couldn’t get stuck at work forever, because you had to go home with the other guys. (I think there was actually at least one lady who was in the carpool too.)

Now that I’m remembering it, I must resolve to ask my dad about it – of course, that means I need to call my parents. I am TERRIBLE with this  - calling my parents. Calling anyone, who am I kidding? When I am out of town for a week or more, I MAY call my husband whom I simply adore, twice. I’m not a phone talker. I attribute this to two things: 1) when I left for college back in 1985 my parents said, “No news is good news. Don’t feel like you need to call.” Phone calls were EXPENSIVE back then. I went to college in Oklahoma and my parents lived in Arizona – it was something like 35 cents a minute – and minimum wage was $3.35/hr., so do the math – I couldn’t do that to my parents (or myself). But I got used to not talking on the phone. And 2) I don’t like how my ear gets warm – it makes me nervous. So, I am not a phone talker.

This proves my love for my husband. Our relationship was long-distance until our Honeymoon. I lived in Tulsa and he lived in Oklahoma City. Perhaps I should be more specific about this: I lived in Broken Arrow (a sub-standard suburb of Tulsa, according to my friend Kendra) and Steve lived in Moore (a sub-standard suburb of Oklahoma City, according to my friend Kendra’s husband, Brad – see? People really ARE meant for each other). And we met in the craziest way. But that’s a different story for another 30 minute allotment.

Anyway – we spoke on the phone probably every day – and for the first few months we would talk on the phone for hours. This is no exaggeration. Hours. And he would call at 10pm. And we would talk until 1 or 2am. And I was happy and chipper at work the next day. Love Folks, that’s what it was. (Is. It still is – I really love him a lot)

(I wonder if part of these thirty minutes can be allotted to spell check and grammar – surely the last three can, right?)

So, as I’ve been writing I just had an idea. Maybe I’ll start a blog, and I’ll call it “My Thirty Minutes” And everyday I’ll write for thirty minutes. Oh wait a minute – that’s a lot of pressure – three days a week for sure, I’ll write for thirty minutes. Maybe somedays I’ll be inspired and write for more than thirty minutes, and then that can count as more than one blog post. But writing for thirty minutes will make a very long blog post. Also, maybe each post should be 15 minutes worth of writing. In which case, I think I’ve hit my 15 minutes or my first blog post. (Without any editing)