This blogging thing is taking on a life of it's own, I think. I thought it would be more like writing in a diary or journal, something I used to do faithfully but haven't done for about a dozen years. It's entirely different, at least for me. As I write, there's no way I can forget even for a moment that others are going to be reading my words, and that has a pretty huge effect on what I write about and how I write it. Being super-aware of not making too many typos or grammatical errors is the least of my worries. I find myself hoping I won't offend anyone, or that I won't embarrass myself with some dumb observation, or that I won't bore my readers to death. I know, of course, that every day in my life isn't going to be wildly exciting, even if I DO have what I consider the best job in the world -- owning a museum and visitors' center on my favorite highway. To try to make every day sound thrilling would be a sham, but I still find myself trying to do so. Sometimes I have to hit myself over the head (not literally!) and remind myself that I'm dedicated to just telling the truth, as unvarnished as possible. If people don't like it, they'll stop reading. If they do like it, then I hope they'll stick around for as long as I can make my fingers push the keys.
Today, for instance, I didn't go to Afton at all. My day was (is) totally routine. Dialysis, followed by a couple of errands, then home. The highlight of my day was finding that my dear friend Ron M. had come over this morning and scrubbed my front porch. He is an absolute dear and the best friend a person could ever have. He knew I had been putting off the scrubbing for some time. He's always thinking of nice things to do.
I'll be in Afton tomorrow, and I hope you'll be around to hear the news just in case Brad Pitt drops in or the roof blows off.