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The blinking cursor, damn thing, it taunts me with its blinking. Showing me I have nothing much of interest to put down on this page today.

Because if I don’t complain, what is there to write about?

There are the things that make me happy I suppose, but that just doesn’t seem as interesting. I mean, chicken gyros (get up on these, seriously) they make me happy, but do you want to read another sentence about them? Nein.

What about….a quiet, clean apartment on a Sunday afternoon? See? Nothing.

What about….John’s new way to make a turtle? A caramel, a chocolate kiss and a pecan just shoved in your mouth at one time? It’s a good idea, but is it fascinating?

But what if I continue on with my pain from the dentist? Or some problem John and I are having? Or a big fight with a friend or parent?

I’ve been reading “Negotiating with the Dead” by Margaret Atwood. Her book on writers writing. She’s been talking a lot about the duality of writing. How a writer is separated from the person, how the writer is magician, like the Wizard of Oz pulling strings behind the curtain. The writers moral dilemma between being moral or thought provoking, over being entertaining.

I find I have a hard time pulling the strings, at least with “blogging”. My strings are well known, everyone has already seen them. It’s not even “memoir” (yes, yes, truthiness and all that), it’s more diary then anything, but if I treat it like a diary I will bore you all with minutiae of the 80th degree.

So, I don’t even know what I’m rambling about, just…if you see me walking down the street, do something ridiculous to me, so I have something to write about tomorrow.