I tried to quit this place. Really, I tried.
I didn’t want to blog anymore. I was tired of the constant pressure to get more page views, write more sponsored posts, and MAKE ALL THE MONEY.
Because let’s face it. This blog? It ain’t never going to make no cash money. I’m just not that kind of blogger.
But it turns out, I can’t quit. When I do, the words all scramble up in my brain, twisting things around, and keeping all the other words from getting out. Which is bad (especially when you make your living writing and you know, hope to publish more romance novels).
I’ve been writing myself posts in Evernote. Subjecting my poor Facebook friends to unnecessarily long rambles. And having really weird dreams.
All of which I was willing to accept. Until, that is, I went to my grandma’s funeral last week.
During the service, the chaplain took us through her life story. He told us how she met my grandfather, what she did for a living, and what she did to keep busy while raising my mom and uncle.
A lot of it was stuff I’d never heard before. Some of it was, according to my mom, not entirely true (she’s not sure when my grandma and grandpa started dating). And all of it made me sad.
How much more was there to my grandma’s life that I would never know about? What was it like living as a young married woman alone during World War II? What did she wish she could do? What was she glad she had done? Did she want to be a fashion designer like my daughter does?
I’ll never know the answers to those questions.
But my daughter (and her children) will know a heck of a lot about me. She’ll know how I felt when she was born. What my frustrations were while she was small. How very much I love her and how glad I am that she is a part of my world. And how ridiculously stupid I get when I’m tired (or drunk).
And I’ll always have a window back to years past. When I’m 65, I’ll be able to picture those first weeks at home alone with her. I’ll remember how frustrating being a working mom could be. And why it was all worthwhile.
I want those memories to be there for my family to read. For me to remember. And for strangers to giggle over.
Why? Because I have a lot to say, and I am nowhere near as eloquent when forced to speak. Such is the life of an introverted attention whore.
And because I really do love my life, and I want the world to know that even amongst the evils of terrorist attacks, Donald Trump, and global warming, happiness was not just a possibility, but a reality for most of us.
Here’s hoping it will continue to be for as far as I can see (and write) into the future.