Sometime next week my blog will be completely redesigned with user friendly features, and other wonderful things. I am so psyched.
In my last post I talked about how blogging has brought back the joy to writing. It no longer seems like a chore or worse.
The feedback I’m getting has been more helpful than all I received last year when I took two semesters of classes with noted-tell-all-writing-teacher. I could have handled a bitch fest. This was a kill-all-the-possible competition festival of death.
I don’t care if people disagree with my political views; it’s a free country and they’re not attacking me personally. Last year it was personal. I had to keep on reminding myself that I was the only woman/girl in the class who was being published weekly.
Somehow the more I tried the more disorganized my work became. Sometimes it wasn’t disorganized but people would say that it was and I would believe them. It was like the worst day’s of junior high which is how I was able to write the story about me, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and my father in perfect-eleven-year-old-girl pitch.
I’m tone deaf though I live for music. I can’t learn foreign languages but if I hang out with kids I can then write in their tones. I can take myself back to any age from nine to eighteen and remember all the frustrations and happiness.
I have perfect pitch in teenage voices. That and an ability to manipulate the English language to describe what I want to are my only linguist gifts–actually two of my only gifts. But they’re more than enough, I think.