The toughest person to forgive is often ourselves.
I’ve two Go Ask Daddy posts unpublished. Crazy, huh? If I can’t finish on my self-imposed deadline, I won’t publish. I’ll save them. I’m holding my blog hostage. I force myself to finish freelance work (veggies) before I get to blogging (snickerdoodle cookies.)
Heard of the Pomodoro timer?
I’m using that too. I’m rewarding myself for hours of distraction-free work with writing for fun. It keeps me hungry (not for snickerdoodles, although …) to put in the work to get to what feeds my soul most.
More to the point: How did they get there? For most of us, it’s picking up a Jennie Ritz novel or Lee Smith masterpiece or sinking your literary teeth into some Pat Conroy while on a Carolina beach trip and you find something. Something that resonates.
See, I got it all ass-backward with my favorite writer.
Corey Wheeland was a writer before she was my friend. She became a published author just last night. This same friend with a similar heart and a marvelous daughter that shines like she ate the rings of Saturn for breakfast had a book released on Thursday.
I made it this far. Not gracefully. It’s 1:14 and I promised myself 1 hour, 14 minutes ago to get to bed at midnight like a normal person. Wait. Don’t normal people get to sleep at even decenter hours than that?
Blogging again has been better than any of the high school reunions I never went to.
I’m seeing friends again and spending less time in aimless pursuits. I’m also falling asleep at inopportune times and really need to work on that. I have a fantastic guest post live just before this one that deserves a load of promotion as big as the donuts I dream of.
I haven’t done a Go Ask Daddy post since … the last time the Rams were in the Super Bowl. Or the Patriots didn’t cheat. That was 1776. Anyway, it’s been a while, and the girls’ questions are different now, but I still have 250 unanswered waiting on a spreadsheet.
Here’s how it works.
I select five questions each week randomly. They come from a trove of inquiries my girls ask. I capture them on bits of paper or in my phone note-taking app or in sharpie on my skin. (Not really, that last one.) Most I forget if I don’t write them down immediately.
He was actually a French surgeon in the 1700s. I’m not sure which of these men I am, and that’s up for debate. What I’d like to do is write posts about quotes now and then. Because of words about words, right?
I did it. I found my way back. Like, in a real way. I keep hearing and reading about doing what we love and loving what we do and you know what? Me, not writing, was kind of like me not thinking about tacos. Only, kinda worse, you know?
Anyway, I’ve found a way to schedule writing and reading and commenting.
I promise it’ll be better than the new Full House or even slicker than those Detroit Lions throwback jerseys, which actually look like a kid just peeled all the Lions stickers off. I’m grateful for a chance to breathe some new life around her.
But sometimes, you just want to tunnel your butt someplace else. Not always even to a churro factory after hours, although … well, we all have aspirations. And I’ve asked several strangers, bloggers, friends, and a few strange blogger friends this question:
If you could build a tunnel from your house directly to anywhere in the world, where would it go? And why?
That’s a lot to get into six words, but it’s possible.
Some are working. Some aren’t. I’m in that journal nearly every day. The 30-day pushup challenge? Well, it might have been 30 days since I’ve done it. I’m sticking to the systems, though, and have found a couple new ones that I know will help.
I have a lot going on. I can handle it. When I don’t deliver, though, people get ticked. And I don’t sleep so well. I’m having trouble getting the time to do it, though, and that’s problematic. After I post this. I’ll get to it
It’s not like the girls’ questions have ever stopped. No, dad just doesn’t answer them on the internet like he used to. He’s all … responsible. Writing stuff for his job, journaling, sitting perfectly still in his recliner, silent.
It’s different from when he does this after eating pizza.
At that point, he’s reclined and grinning like a baby with gas. No, he’s actually meditating. That’s fine and all, but Go Ask Daddy posts don’t just write themselves.