I don't know why I'm blogging. I guess it's sort of a modern diary. But it's not really. I loathe the concept of updating people on the mundanities (is that a word?) of life . . . "ate tomato soup today; wish it was accompanied by a grilled cheese sandwich but I'm watching carbs" . . . This is really why I don't Twitter or Tweet or whatever it's called. I'm trying to practice writing. Practice expressing myself. For no reason whatsoever. I have no illusion of being a professional writer. I think that career is now open to everyone with an internet connection. But I do have to say that I read a few blogs myself . . . not anywhere near as many as I could, but still. And I have to credit one of them with having an effect beyond the sheer enjoyment of them.
The Bloggess.
Regardless of how lousy I feel, and lately that's been pretty lousy, she makes me smile. And laugh. And cry with laughter. And that's a gift. And I want to thank her personally.
But as I mentioned in a recent post, I'm kind of withdrawn lately, compared to my old self at least. So when my son, Bruce Wayne, and my daughter, Clark Kent, and I went to the event marking her book launch, I stayed in my seat while they stood on line to meet her, get her autograph, and take pictures with her. My heart was full.
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