The weekend was too long and too short, in its own weird way. It feels as though nothing got done. But really, plenty did. I can't really complain, since I don't work anyway and every day may as well be Saturday in my life, but we all must have something to complain about, musn't we?

I'm half-watching an extraordinarily stupid movie called Mad Money. That's been one of my worst habits since becoming a mommy; I can't seem to give my undivided attention to anything on a television screen. Even though the baby's prematurely in bed, there are a dozen other things that I feel I should be doing. Noble as that sounds, I'm mostly playing farmville and tinkering with the jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen table.

On a completely different note, I'd like to take this opportunity to discuss why I decided to start a blog. A girl I know began one recently and it inspired me. I still probably would not have bothered had it not been for the encouragement of my best friend and my future sister-in-law. In highschool I was a hardcore diarist, so much so that I couldn't seem to stop myself from writing in my diary through most of my classes. The words just came and came and came. I could not just sit there and listen at all. Some people can, some people doodle. I wrote. And did not pay much attention at all. That may be why I didn't do so well in high school.

It goes back much further than that, of course. The first story I ever remember writing was about an octopus, or a dolphin, or some other variety of sea creature, and it's home under the sea. I'm fairly sure that's what landed me an invitation to the World of Writing event at Londonderry mall in second or third grade. I was sold after that though. All I ever wanted to do was write. People told me I should become a teacher and write in my spare time, but I only wanted to be a full-time author. When I was a Brownie I wrote an awesome horror story (I was a big Stephen King fan at the time) that I remember typing up on MS Works and printing on the old dot-matrix. This, however, was not enough for the required badge, and I had to write a poem as well. I got a lot of help with the poem, from someone`s random mother, and it sucked. It was about butterflies and the last line claimed, falsely, that they were "my favorite thing of all things", which I knew sounded terrible, but I couldn't find a better way to work it, and besides, I wasn't very attached to that particular piece.

Around grade 5 I decided to write a book. It was about some girls and their mothers who become shipwrecked and build themselves homes on a deserted island. I only got about 30 pages in before getting bored and calling it quits. Sometimes I still wish I'd not given up, or that I at least still had the manuscript. It seems to me I spent a lot of thought on those pages.

I attented Leadworks, a city-wide writing conference, all three years of jr high. The teacher taking submissions called me down to his classroom on one of those occasions and questioned my use of the word "eschewed". He was sure it was either a typo, or that I'd made the word up. After that came the high school diarising (did I make that word up?) and then high school ended and I began blogging, prior to when the internet was cool.

Then college killed my urge to write. I made the mistake of taking a new, unproven program and apparently misunderstood the program description, and thought that Professional Writing would be something that it wasn't. I should have taken journalism. Maybe I should have become a teacher. Maybe I should have just kept writing, in spite of my disillusionment.

Not to say I didn't land some place I don't want to be; I love my life (and also semicolons) and wouldn't trade it for anything. But I still wish I was an author, so I'm going to begin blogging again. :)