Of course it was a mistake to advertise that I wanted to write a blog anniversary posting. Big build-ups into grand finales--on multiple levels-- have never been my strong suit.
After the gym tonight, I did indeed head out on my own for a celebratory panini and 2 glasses of Pinot Gris. But now it is very late. I'm grease-filled and tipsy .... bundled on my porch listening to the rain drip. My laptop battery-about-to-die sign popped up and I've got 3 minutes before termination.
And I can't articulate anything, much less what blogging has done to change me.
I just finished a month of piano-playing for a musical, "Nine", in which the protagonist is a once-successful film director plagued by insecurities and inability to produce a script, pronto. In one scene, he laments his "artistic block" to his wife, to which she attempts to soothe him:
"Relax! I know how you work. Your ideas have to come of their own accord ..."
That's always been a hallmark of how I write. Many nights I ride home on the #9, wiped-out, scrounging, thinking:
"I've got to write something. I've got to write something."
And it isn't until I come in from the city and out into this dark space, where the squirrels scrabble in the branches behind me, and I don't think about pleasing or entertaining anyone, even myself, or about what an opening sentence should sound like, that I'll start typing some nonsense just to get the fingers moving....and an idea comes.
Of course, tonight, I'm so close to dozing that no ideas are squeezing through.
But I like the anonymous reader's suggestion that this blog has produced enough good dates and strange coincidences that maybe I indulge a week to reflect.
My grand ego aside, I won't drag it out that long. But after searching most of Monday for the right opening sentence, I've stumbled on several points of yet-unexplored entry.
Which I'll soon explore ... after sleep ... and a little less wine ...
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