Yesterday, one of my friends shared my Market Basket post with her friends and said “I loved reading your blog.” I was flattered she considered my words worthy of sharing. For a blogger and aspiring writer, that’s a wonderful compliment.
Thank you, friend.
The words “aspiring writer” conjure up images. Margaret Mitchell allegedly wrote Gone with the Wind while recovering from an ankle injury. Others, like the journalistic types sitting at the Algonquin Roundtable, met for a witty lunch every day before filing their newspaper articles. Then, there’s poor old F. Scott Fitzgerald, smoking and drinking himself around the French Riviera, only to end up dying in Hollywood at age 44, shacked up with gossip-columnist Sheilah Graham.
Writing…it’s a glamorous life.
This morning, nothing but a writer’s block here. In between scrambling eggs, running up and down the 14 stairs to my office, and blaring Maria Callas’ greatest “hits,” I’m punching the keys in vain. Dot and Breezy must wonder what’s going on over here.
Last year around this time, I wrote a funny story about a man on a train. Click on the frog in the garden if you’d like to read it.
No frogs were injured in the writing of this blog post.
