So little has not been going on around here that I have forgotten to blog.
I often tell myself that I like writing, because I know that I like writing. I often tell myself to blog every day, and follow up with myself the next day by blogging. I've accomplished, I think. But then, the next day, I end up brainstorming layers of sweaters to fight the Superman cold that's happening in Utah right now, or teaching, or reading, or nibbling on the abundance of snack foods that make up a mountain in my work cubby and have completely overtaken my diet, or lack of, or walking out of the office to pick up a call on my Fancy New Smart Phone that I bought myself for Christmas and still hate, or plotting how quietly I can play the music at my desk without a yelp of impertinence from the guy across the room who I love to teach Illustrator with but who unfortunately listens only to crap.
And who just came over to try my poncho on and who threatened to teach his next class in it and asked me if it was alpaca.
But the point here is.
I'm taking a writing class which is incredible but has also made me realize how incredibly scary it is to write about yourself.
I'm also taking a reading series where I go listen to people read their publications every week.
So I should be writing, even if it is mostly blogs about my own mundaneaeity, or snack foods.
I learn lessons every day. And I should talk about them, because that's why I was here in the first place. I sit through classes, some of which I have problems with and some of which I am completely enthralled by, and I am always late to class, and I learn lessons driving in my big car, and sitting at home reading, and I learn lessons at night, where I've had no time for anything but falling in love.
I am here, to blog, every day. I'm back. I'm doing it. And I'm telling all of you six people who're here, so I have to do it. I want to do it; I miss it. I read Mandy and Brittany and this guy and whoozit and I'm back, so.