Worst case scenario

My greatest fear, for my Internet life anyway, is that this blog would turn into an endless bitch fest staring me, myself, and my whiny crap.  So let it be written, so let it be done (inappropriate Easter-time obsession with Yul Brenner, check).  Perhaps it’s self fulfilling prophecy… or perhaps I’m just whiny by nature. But, I will no longer subject you to my moaning. I swear.

Moving along.

My sister, Anne, is a brilliant writer. She doesn’t happen to believe this about herself.  But, then again, who does? Who among us can point out our talents and say, unabashedly, “yeah, I’m awesome”? Few and far between, I think. Anyway, Anne is a writer. And not in the “haikus in the bathroom stall” kind of writer (although I’m sure she’s guilty of worse) , the kind with talent. And I know, because I have a phd is reading bad literature (cough Twilight is in my purse as we speak, cough).

I think the only way to really categorize yourself as something (writer, runner, sociopath… whatev) is to be understood within that community as a whole.  For instance, in a former life I studied ceramics. I sat at that damn wheel everyday and threw an endless number of pots, plates, mugs, vases (all of which Anne disliked, consequently), but was never thought of as, actually, an artist by the ceramics community where I worked. And, therefore, it was my conclusion that I am, in fact, not an artist.

Neither here nor there. Anyway, Anne is a writer. And other, even more brilliant (perhaps) writers are out there appreciating her work, pushing her to write better, and (hopefully) working on getting her published.

This all has a point. Anne Lamott, my own person Jesus and her book Bird by Bird (my Bible, if you will) stress the importance of writing everyday. That is, of course, if your words are something you can’t contain inside yourself. She reminds us that writing is not easy, its not even (usually) fun. However, for writers it’s necessary. If you feel like you’re going to explode if you don’t write every day, then you must. Simply. And while my sister is an artist who paints beautiful scenes and crafts characters with love and attention, I write everyday, too. Mostly its crap. In fact, it’s all crap. But, if I don’t, I’ll explode. And Anne Lamott wouldn’t want that

Although, my mother might.

Anyway, I may not be an artist, or a writer, or a swimmer for that matter – but I will keep doing what I love. I hope.

And, in the spirit of haikus, here is a classic by my friend Brendan about our most favorite thing – fifty cent slices at the Olive Branch