I don't care for blogs.

It's true, I don't. I really don't care what other people think (I suspect you'll quickly note that I often vehemently say things that it turns out I don't mean.). Until a few days ago I read only one blog and thank god it's not daily. That would be Very Hot Jews. It's my brother-in-law Simon's blog along with our dear friend Sera. They are freakishly gifted writers and I regularly shake my head as I marvel at their facility with words. But my sister Megan likes blogs. Funny well-written ones. Now and again she sends me a link to an especially brilliant entry. She reads several whose names I may just put in here when I get off my ass to ask her what they are.

So anyway, Meg sent me a link to Confessions of a Pioneer Woman and now I'm doomed, DOOMED I say! It doesn't hurt that the blogger is fabulous and that I have a cold and the book I'm reading is slow.

And the thing is, I'm a writer. Albeit, a wildly undisciplined writer, but it is what I studied in school and what I intended to do as far back as I can remember (and that's purty far back, I tell you). I attempted to pursue writing as a career, but hey, did I mention undisciplined? And I was not able to properly deny my other and apparently stronger love, acting. So I ditched the writing for the acting, but can you really ditch the writing? Can you stop narrating constantly in your head (well, yes, with Zoloft)? When I read an especially good chunk of words, I find myself itchy to write. But what outlet? Years ago I had a web 'zine with a friend. Truth be told, that was not unlike blogging.

And damn that Pioneer Woman, she got my juices flowing. And again, I have a cold. So fuck it, I'm blogging. I've been doing it my head for years, 'bout time I spew it out over you people.

Jo