So, my goal, when I got my blog up and running, was to blog every day. That’s what “they” recommend, that you blog every day, and get your name out there, and tried it, I really did. But it seemed so huge, do to that, even with all the suggestions and the list of things I wanted to blog about. After about a dozen blogs, I backed away from it. I went to a convention where I had a blast, and came back very energized. And yet, as I sit in front of my computer, I’m again stymied: what do I blog about?
Oh, sure, I’ve got plenty to say at other times. Just put me in the shower, or behind the wheel, or washing dishes and my mind just chatters away like there’s nobody listening. Or everybody’s listening, it doesn’t matter. My brain doesn’t care. And put me in a coffee shop. With some espresso and a really neat pastry? I’m ready to call up everyone I know and tell them what I think.
I don’t know if other bloggers have this issue. It’s not exactly writer’s block, it’s more like a writer’s stomp. It’s more like when I sit down to actually blog (instead of reading books about blogging) that I am overcome with silence.
And then there’s advice. My sister says I should be funnier. My friend says I should only blog about writing. My brain wants to talk about the things that I’ve seen on my recent travels, and in the end it gets totally muddled.
Not that anyone wants to know about my personal confusion; if they’re reading a blog, they want to read something smart and observant and sassy and, yes, entertaining. But while I’m entertained, in my own brain, I have doubts as to what the world thinks. Still, the only way to find out is to try. So here goes.
On my recent trip, I took Amtrak all the way to Ventura, California. The train that was to pick me up in Raton, New Mexico, was around six hours late. During which time I had a marvelous conversation with a woman who was also meeting the train. We were both of an age where parents start to pass away and unrealized dreams become even more important with the passage of time. She told me her dreams and fears and I, surprisingly to me, shared mine. And then I started hearing this message, first from her: Don’t be afraid.
Once on the train, we shared a fun meal in the club car, and rattled along as the New Mexico scenery passed by. Then, I went to my little sleeper car and she went into coach.
On trains, you share meals. I had several meals with strangers, the conversation specifics which escape me now, but all of which had the same message: Don’t be afraid. Which was rather strange, since I didn’t share everything with every one, and not all of them could have known of my struggles with courage and writing and blogging and everything. Not all of them could, but all of them had the same thing to share. I even met a shaman, a woman, who when I told her that her title made me think of beads and rattles, just laughed and said, well, if they work, they work. She also said, don’t be afraid, but more, she said, sometimes you meet the people you need to meet. When you’re ready, when the universe thinks you’re ready.
By that time I’d had enough and was glad to get off the train in Ventura, with my friend, and share five days with her and 90-plus other people, who all liked to talk about writing and characters and yes, there was drinking, but not as much as I like to talk it up. It always sounds better to say “we were there to drink” because somehow, just having many cups of coffee and excellent pasta at a nearby Italian restaurant, and then talking some more doesn’t sound nearly as glamorous and invigorating as it totally was.
After that was over, I headed back to LAX, the Amtrak train station in Los Angeles, where I had around six hours to wait. (And if you’ve ever been, you’ll see what a hardship this is not.)
During which, I saw a group of men with baby carriages, and realized, after about 10 minutes, that there were no babies. I asked a guy and he said they were filming a show called Betty White: Off Their Rockers. In it, Betty White’s people would stand around in various places in L.A, and trick people in an effort to embarrass them.
I was able to watch the filming that takes place in LAX, the Amtrak train station. It wasn’t, as far as I could see, anything as classy and smart as Candid Camera, but they hooted and giggled to themselves while filming. There was an older actor would stop nubile young women and ask them provocative questions that were posing as a “food survey.” He would ask, “Do you like tongue?” under the auspices that he meant as a part of the cow that people sometimes cook and eat, rather than the less obvious sexual aspect of deep kissing someone.
The confusion on the suspect’s face made me uncomfortable, and it was obvious that the most attractive young women were the target, which made it somehow worse. And worse than that, the guys filming laughed like crazy; it was all a hoot to them. They filmed more embarrassing things, and I think, as much as I tried to stay out of the line of fire, and yet be able to watch, they caught me in my red hoodie. So if you see a middle-aged woman in the background, and she’s wearing a red hoodie and looking like she’d like to ruin said filming, then that’s me.
The trip home was brilliant. I did nothing but stare out the window and eat with strangers. I think I shared one meal with two brilliant men, who, completely ignoring me and my “I’m not telling you how many and of what type my degrees are,” started having an Ivy League Fight. One of them went to Harvard and the other went to Cambridge and lived in Manhattan. One had a father who had a PhD in English Lit, so the other one taught it. One had actually time traveled to medieval England, and the other one knew Dr. Who and on it went. I was giggling like mad by the time I excused myself to my little train-cave, and tried not to blame them for bragging. After all, they’d not just had a guest spot on Betty White’s latest show, had they.
So, my job now is to dig up the list of exciting topics I wrote down the last time I was at a coffee shop, and really do this thing, this dream I dreamed up some time ago. Where I do nothing but write all day long and take long, Dickens-style walks, and make excellent food and have important conversations over glasses of white wine. That’s the life I want to life. So here’s to that life. Here’s to not being afraid.