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Monday, February 2, 2009

February 2, 2009

I spent my pre-super bowl day reading the blogs of my friends. I follow a few on a regular basis, I even have one particular blog prominently displayed in my Favorites on my cell phone.

I learned even heroes get discouraged. I read all about super husbands. Although that one made me cry, I thought Mrs. Raballard had a super husband. I of course will have to bow to the real super husband. I learned how difficult Eighth Grade was in 1895, I almost remember that first hand. I learned how to format query letters. (thanks EJ) I will most likely get the same great form letter rejections, but my query will look spiffy. I read about the crazy truck driver in Kansas City.

I enjoyed reading my friends blogs, however it did lead to a stark realization. I am not a writer. I have no idea how to tug at the heart stings with flair. I am unable to advise on marital bliss. There is no way I can convince the reigning super husband to relinquish his thrown for the real super husband.

I can't begin to tell you how discouraged I get, without coming out whiny. That blog was a work of art. It should win the Pulitzer prize awarded to blog. I am discouraged on a daily basis. I have a constant struggle to keep going and not to give up.

I can't even remember 8th grade, let alone tell you how hard it was. (Actually school was never hard for me)

You would fall off of your chair in shear horror if I were to tell you how to format your query letter.

I don't know if I am a recovering perfectionist, an optimistic pessimist, or a gloom and doom humorist. I am also not a writer. I am a story teller. I can twist my cancer into a humorous tale. I have the ability to make people smile with my words, they might not be formatted correctly, or spelled right, but even I have to admit they are funny. It is also fun to write.

I will let you in on a little secret. Mrs. Raballard had never read one of my blogs. Until last Friday at Chilli's, she had forgotten her book and wanted something to read. My blog site is also posted in my favorites. This was a great place for me to be in, she had nothing to read and I my blog was at my disposal. After reading the Menu one more time, my wife submitted to my torture. She read my blogs and loved them.

If a reader comes to my blog in hopes of sage advise, I suggest you try one of the amazing blogs I follow. Well actually if they are here looking for advise I might suggest therapy.

If a reader is looking for a sanctuary from daily struggles, a place they can smile, have a good time, please pull up a chair. The fireplace is always lit. There are plenty of easy chairs, or cots for the comatose.

For the rare adventurers out there feel free to click on the follow button. I will try my best to be entertaining.

For any of you that have read previous blogs, I have revised them. The revision is slight and you might not notice they have been revised, but they have. I have deleted two that just couldn't measure up to my low standards.

Please come back, I truly miss you if you stay away too long. Feel free to leave a message, I promise not to tell anyone you have read my blog.


  1. Hey, Ray, as long as it is fun for you and you can spin a yarn with humor the way you do, you've got the right stuff. Tell Bev, "Hi."

  2. I saw you blog post on Nathan Bransford's blog. I wanted to comment on how much I like what I've read here.

    You write very well.

  3. It strikes me that there are two modes of writing (like so many creative endeavours). There is process writing, and product writing. Process writing is important for what it allows us to get out, for the almost visceral pleasure of words following words, spilling out onto page or screen. This sort of writing is deeply creative, but it does not stop to consider audience, grammar or logic.

    Product writing is very conscious of audience, seeks to communicate, inform, entertain, connect. It is about being read almost more than it is about writing.

    Does it matter which camp we sit in? Not really. The very act of writing can be its own end.