What it always comes back to

This is what it always comes back to:

“…I do know how good I have it with the kids and the husband and the house and the surfing and the lifestyle, but then again I also know the whole enchilada balances both on fate’s whim with regard to my luck and my own strained and rather questionable ability to accomplish absolutely everything work-wise and mom-wise and wife-wise and homemaker-wise that needs to be done every day to maintain the front I’ve so successfully established…”

– from Insomnia #3

The obligatory it-could-be-worse-first-world-problems-acknowledgment followed by the very real notion that if either my luck or my vigilance falters, various aspects of the life I’ve built will collapse. It’s difficult, this figuring out how much to share because people relate (and appreciate being able to relate) without oversharing (which people only appreciate if you’re a celebrity losing your shit). As a writer, I long to nail down the words with concrete details, but as a mom/wife/friend/small town inhabitant, I cannot specify too much about the other lives so intwined with mine – even in this era of living out our lives in the online eye, people expect some sort of ownership over their own stories. So blogging about why I might be sad or the things that scare me becomes impossible to do in all but the most vague (and therefore, whiny) way.

And that’s hard to do anyway when so much depends on my ability to seem as if I’m smart and together and ambitious and fun and prepared to take on life’s challenges with sunshine in one hand, chilled vodka in the other and eternal optimism oozing from every well-kept pore. OK, that’s an overstatement – no one expects all that from me. Except, perhaps, me. But it was fun to write and the point is nonetheless that no one likes hanging out with Jennifer McWoefulpants. Especially me.

So does any point exist in public thinking out loud? I want to say yes since, as a reader, I’ve found great humor, relief and even some inspiration in the travails of others. But the reward stems not only from the stories being told, but how artfully they are conveyed. I’m not sure I can pull it off – the right blend of serious and self-effacing, the ability to put forth experiences without coming off as self-indulgent, especially given the way Facebook and Twitter have changed the storytelling landscape.

Maybe short status updates are enough? I have come to love the limit of 140 characters.

But I wanted to write another Savage Money, had some ideas for it, even if just to post here. I’m about to launch back into fiction writing with a friend or two as our new writers’ group solidifies. I need to chronicle my work experiences for suitable outlets. Opportunities clamor to be answered. My brains ticks literary: when I’m walking on the beach or lying in bed, my thoughts align as if they intended to wind up on a page. I long for verbs and am weary of adjectives.

Yet here I am, writing about writing instead of writing. Silly. And now the demands of the day beg my attention.

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