A previous ornithological post click drew gratifying response, so I am bringing you another bird. I owe this one to my sister Luli, who suffers, as I do, from bizarre and frequently scatological images.
This blog is six months old, and I have written twenty-five posts, most of them focused on me. Like many people, I find myself fascinating. I love stories with rich detail, and the stories I know best are my own. I could happily fill a blog post with photos of my dog, my cat, the rooms of my house, and my amateurish attempts at container gardening, frequently wrecked by squirrels.
If I felt free to write about Amanda - her troubles and triumphs, the funny or maddening things she does - I would have a goldmine. Since I want to protect her privacy, instead I mine the past.
I think I’m far enough along in life to have found the proper balance between smugness and self-loathing, but while writing my previous post, about the cute little rich girl misbehaving on the train home from prep school click , I had a severe attack of the latter. ‘Who gives a shit?’ I thought.
I’m not planning to stop writing the blog. It is excellent practice, and finding the pictures is really fun. The weekly deadline maintains order and discipline in my otherwise ad lib life. While the thought of reading all day with cat and cookies has its appeal, I know from experience that sloth bums me out. I could turn back to my novel, but I’m still avoiding that. It has scared me off by being too close to my own life, and the revision I have in mind is daunting - it requires me to eliminate the main character.
Before I began The Feminist Grandma I consulted with Sandra, whose blog frequently highlights other activists and writers. click She suggested that I sometimes feature subjects other than myself, and I think it’s time to do that. Otherwise The Feminist Grandma will become The Blog Bird, which flies in constantly diminishing circles until it disappears into its own asshole.
NEXT WEEK: THE COUNTRY OF THE OLD
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