A Trip to the Dentist

It’s been a long time, blog. A very long time. Many things have happened, most of them blasé. Most falling into the pattern of work all day, watch bad reality TV, cook dinner, drink copious amounts of wine, fall asleep, repeat 5 times. With the occasional wedding, birthday and funeral thrown in for color. One thing that has decidedly not been in the mix is writing.

Why, you ask?

Because I am a lazy, lazy girl. And at this point, pretty scared that I’ve nothing left to say. That’s not true. I have a lot to say, I’m just not sure how to say. But I want to say it. In the ensuing self-examination (it’s a monthly occurrence, but rarely results in any sweeping changes), I have discovered that writing, to me, is like a trip to the dentist.

It’s something I know I have to do, but I put it off. I avoid it like a plague-ridden street. I pretend like I don’t really need to do it, that it won’t really make that big of a difference, that my teeth won’t be that much whiter or feel that much cleaner. But the last time I went they did and I know the same thing will happen again. So I suck it up and I make an appointment and I go and it’s awful, and it hurts, but deep down I love it. I love the smell of the place, I love being in the chair with the light in my eyes, relaxing, feeling my teeth getting smoother and smoother, even the sound of the little sucking machine. Bliss.

And if I ever sat down to write, if I ever got over the (wrongly) remembered pain, the imagined electric shock from the laptop, the fear of attack by the keyboard, the possibility of electrical cord strangulation…I know in the end it would feel clean and smooth and refreshing and I would walk around smiling for the next two days. I just have to get over it and make the damn appointment.

And hopefully do it more than once a year.

What's in a name?

I'm a traditional gal, raised in the South, for better or worse, and taught that when a woman weds, she takes her husband's name. And I have every intention of doing so. I do. Really. I've always believed it is the proper way to signal the beginning of your new 'family.' I've even silently derided the droves of women who don't change their names or hyphenate as being selfish or too progressive or, gasp, feminists. But now my time has come to sign that piece of paper that will forever change who I am, who I've been for 30 years. It's a lot harder than I thought it was going to be.

It doesn't bother me to change it legally -- I like the idea of bills, magazines and invitations coming with my new Mrs. name emblazoned on them. At least it will feel like something has changed. The challenge comes when I think about my professional name. Not that I've been published or had some great success -- just one IMDB credit on my darling husband's film -- but it's the name that I've always identified with my writing.

The internal debate started the other night at an alumni mixer for industry types. Most everyone knew my name, but nametags were de rigueur. I picked up the Sharpie, took nametag in hand, wrote my first name boldly and then...couldn't think for the life of me what to put. All of a sudden changing my name seemed like a horrible idea. The worst possible thing I could do to the fledgling writer within. How could I possibly abandon the name that had served me so well? How would all those punks who teased the shy, bookish 16 year-old know it was me that wrote that amazing film they just Tivo'd? How would my success as revenge plot play out now? How would all my parents' friends and friends of friends who've been looking out for me on that silver screen for years be able to pick me out of that long crawl without the old family name? All of a sudden, it's an overwhelming decision.

I left my last name blank on that nametag. One thing I'm really good at: putting off decisions for another day.

Screaming into the void

I read blogs. I stalk them from my prison of middle management and I devour them. My bookmarks are riddled with my chance encounters and all time favorites. They change frequently. I like the insight into my friends' lives and I love the behind the scenes look into the lives of people I don't care for too much. This is my guilty pleasure.

I am a writer, at least by personal description. I start plays and screenplays and sometimes finish them. Usually they bore me before I get to the end. The idea of revealing my innermost thoughts and fantasies on a stage to a room full of strangers excites me. The idea of doing the same on the anonymous web terrifies me. I have decided it is time to face my fear.

The why now of the situation is quite simple: today is the first day of the rest of my life. More or less. I have a new name and a new partner for life and the stress of wedding invitations, dress fittings and menu cards has finally been lifted from my shoulders.

I have been married for ten days. I am at least forty pounds overweight for my height -- forty pounds I've gained since meeting my now darling husband. I am a constant procrastinator who puts off projects and even my career aspirations for another day. I am fast approaching my thirties and I want to fill my glass with my drink of choice while I still can. So here I am web. Read me or don't. I almost wish you wouldn't. I'll pretend you don't just to make it easier on myself. I want to be a better person, a good wife, a diligent writer, a person who actually enjoys going to the gym and sweating and starving. I want to put a piece of myself into the world. I don't know what this blog will be, that's why the description is blank. I think it will naturally fall into its proper place in the blogosphere. So give me some time, don't be too harsh and welcome to my mind, five hundred or so words at a time.