Alert readers (and morning people) may have noticed that there was an entry here this morning that is no longer. Interesting story, that.
See, here’s my blogging schedule. As soon as the last boy is in bed (which would be Raphael), I head down to the computer. I sit in the dark, usually, and pull up a blank Word document. I stare at it for a few minutes, thinking, “That’s it. I’ve had my last idea. There are no more.” Until I start typing. When I’m done, I read my email, check out a few web sites, generally fritter some time away. Then I go back to whatever I may have written, edit a bit, and post it.
Well, last night I sat in front of that blank screen. And sat. And sat.
I read my email, and then back to the blank screen.
Nothing.
Claire jumped up on my lap, shed a few million white hairs, and left.
Nothing.
I fed the fish.
I read a few ideas from Blog Ideas.
NOTHING.
I was tired. I wanted to call my brother. So I pulled up some files, old writing. I found one essay I had submitted to an anthology something like three months ago. Hmmm, I thought. Well, they don’t seem interested in it. I need a blog for tonight, and this actually seems fairly similar in length and tone to most of my blog entries.
So what the heck? I cut, I pasted, I went to call my brother. (Hi, Sha!)
This morning I was making pancakes for the boys. Tre helped me, breaking the egg into the bowl, pouring the buttermilk, and generally flinging ingredients about. Max was lying on the floor, wailing that it wasn’t fair, he NEVER gets to help, when does HE get a turn? (The answers to those being, Fair is for games, you got to help last time, you will be able to help next time, and stop screaming or go sit on the stairs to scream.) Raphael was pulling the contents of the fridge out and strewing them about, so I scooped him up and put him in his high chair with a juice box. And on my way back to the stove I swung by the computer and clicked to get my new email. Because I am compulsive about email. It’s sick, really. I check it seventeen times a day.
Anyhow.
I had several new messages, but three hungry boys, and email doesn’t scream or try to kill each other if it is neglected. So once the boys were all elbow-deep in syrup, I sat down to read. I love email. I belong to a pretty active list and get about 60-80 emails a day. Most of these messages were from that list, one was from a friend, gushing over some pictures of the boys I’d sent her (always good to hear), and then there was one from a name I only dimly recognized. It starts, “I’d like to use this piece in my new book…”
OH. MY. GOODNESS.
It’s the UNPUBLISHED essay I submitted a million years ago and just self-PUBLISHED twelve hours ago. Whoops.
Now if a blog is considered “published” is a gray area, from what I can tell. But I yanked the piece anyway. Because one of the things this editor said in her email is that she’d love to see more of my writing, and I’m “very good.” So I love her more than any of you now. Sorry.