You know, I tried starting a business the other year. About storytelling, and how to use it, the form, to sell things, also known as marketing. I thought I’d do well at it, but it’s just not fitting into my schedule.
The act of writing with the intention to post it on this blog is weird because I mostly write on a Word doc, knowing and hoping that the only time these words will ever be read would be many years from now when I’m long dead, or newly dead, or when I’m dead and my kids …
Well let’s now talking about death right now.
How many times have I had tried to write a blog? Is it really for me? I’m remember the last time I did it was January, 2020. I had so much hope, my gawd, it was a new year on a new decade and I don’t know, I took some pictures at a carnival and thought maybe I’d publish these and jump start my blog writing.
Then my mom dies, Kobe dies, and the world stopped.
Four years ago. And many more attempts before then. And now that I am all about the words again. Spring really fucks with my emotions that I can’t seem to write anything; summer brings it out again. I don’t get it.
And because of that, I get hungrier to read. During the winter, I read four novels back to back. Ann Petry’s “The Street,” Toni Morrison’s “Sula,” and Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart.” I know that’s only three — but I can’t seem to remember the fourth if there ever was one and if it had, then it must’ve been a forgettable tale.
So that’s the challenge I’m giving to myself. Be brave and just write this blog. Publish. Done. It must be written in WordPress and not in Word Doc since that’s reserved for my own little world, my own little time, and my kids who will break into my computer when I’m dead and see all the nasty shit I’ve been saving and read all the shit that’s been in me since I started writing.
Just publish. Read once maybe. Get it out. I pay for this site; I might as well use it. What to write about. We’ll figure that out as we go along. But maybe once a day? Might as well. Challenge on.