Nag nag nag.
"You should write a book!"
"You're wasting your talent!"
"If you don't write it soon there are people who won't get to read it!"
But what would I write about? Who cares what I have to say? Who am I, anyway?
Excuses whisper. Sitting is the last thing I need to increase. It's right up there with being on the computer and snacking. I mean, I should be moving more not less. There is nothing I have to say that hasn't already been said, and better. I have so many other things I find more interesting such as my French and Italian language studies, herb gardening, recipes I want to try, friends I want to connect with, a huge stack of books to read, weight to lose, trips to take, and life to live! Who has time to write!
And yet there is this nagging nagging nagging voice in my head telling me I ought to at least try.
I tried to silence the voice, 'ignore it and it will go away.' Right? I played a bunch of tennis with my husband, then went to a Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory with my daughters. I juiced the softening leftover apples from autumn's harvest. I even cleaned off all the shelves in the laundry room combining duplicate bottles of bleach, Woolite, and Pine Sol. I weeded my twelve herb-growing flower pots which show life after winter's chill, I washed the living room curtains, and I made my very first batch of French Onion Soup using my daughter's homemade artisan bread for the croutons that float on top. I cleaned out my clothes closet, and my book shelves, and that catch-all drawer in the kitchen.
Still, it nags.
Deep in my brain.
The moment I've dreaded is here.
I have to try to write a book.
Then, it dawned on me: I've already begun a book. My blogs are full of writings, nine years worth!
Compilation has begun.
A surprising eagerness ensues, and the voice is hushed.