Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

This is a blog I began writing about four months ago at the end of October:

Have I yet mentioned that I am fasting for a year from writing?  No, not this kind of writing. I mean, stories.  There's nothing quite so freeing as getting rid of an idol.  Consequently, I have been made very aware how much of my spare thought time is devoted to thinking of how exactly to write things.  Writing has been and will be a big part of my life.  Also consequently, this blog is my only writing outlet.

My blog posts are very rarely thought out, very quickly written, and very hastily proof-read.  (I say that to hedge your judgement on my abilities because I also have pride issues.  I'm working on them.) My stories, in later years, have been demoted to tools of escape from a hectic or "unsatisfying" life, and that's just not fair.  It's not fair to God, Who should be my first comforter, it's not fair to my talents which He gave me in order that I might perfect them, and it's also not fair to my poor characters whose lives were being so poorly arranged and whose lines were riddled with obscene comma use.

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I gave this up at the end of October and plan on revisiting it on my birthday this November. Feel free to hold me accountable :)

A LOT has happened in my life since I began this post. (Please, enjoy that link. i loled tons.)  I graduated, I have a full time nannying job, a boyfriend (holla!), and waaay less time to do silly things like write stories (or journal, or blog)! But the first two paragraphs still stand.  I have since noticed a huge, though subtle, change in my thought life and it has been for the better. The best thing I did was to delete everything off of my computer so that a week later I wouldn't just open a file "on accident".  Oh man did that ever hurt!  But, I figured that the next time I write my attitude about writing will be different and I know that if God wants me to tell a particular tale, he will allow me to recall the facts and to write it even better.  So, I'm not worried, even though I do miss some of my characters--and if that sounds weird to you, I promise that every writer feels the same way.  Check out this poem by Anne Bradstreet. When I first read it I could not believe that a Puritan woman felt so long ago the way I currently feel about writing. It cracked me up and I have felt like we were friends ever since. Anyway, this lady is legit and I am pretty darn sure I will meet her one day.

The Author To Her Book

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth did'st by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print) should mother call. I cast thee by as one unfit for light, The visage was so irksome in my sight, Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could. I washed thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet. In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find. In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam. In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come, And take thy way where yet thou art not known. If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy mother, she alas is poor, Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.