I must be crazy.
OK. I am crazy.
That’s me. Type A. Miss Volunteer. Some might say “crazy.”
Ulterior motives lurked deep down in my psyche, however. I am of the genus “semper procrastinus,” (always put off) but if I have a deadline, oh, I’m there.
Yes, this blogging thing will help me write. It will put this bohemian-minded, free spirit on a schedule. Look! I'm already typing--getting my head out of the left hemisphere, where it dwells all day at work, and into my right mind.
Speaking of work . . . I am an office coordinator for the pharmacy department of a Utah health insurance company. It’s the number one place to work in Utah, voted on by its employees, including me. I feel so blessed to have that job. God is good.
As it happens, last week we had a pharmacy team meeting. We have a lot of newcomers to the department. The committee who determines the agenda (of which I am a member, of course) decided to have everyone, whether newbie or oldie, stand up, introduce themselves, and tell one thing nobody knows about us.
While the others stood up and sat down again, my memory time-traveled. I mean, I’m pretty old. I’ve led a very good and full life. I’ve done almost everything I’ve ever wanted to do: acted on the stage, painted pictures, wrote songs, performed those songs in a band, a trio and even solo on the piano and guitar. I even sang on a Broadway stage one time (funny story—for later), danced at Lincoln Center, taught piano lessons, art and calligraphy classes—real calligraphy; the kind where you study manuscripts written in Latin.
My co-workers took turns enlightening us. A father of five, a grandmother of ten, piano players and lovers of sports succinctly pronounced their tidbits of information. I was almost last.
"What should I tell them?" I wondered.
“I won a Keystone Award for journalism.”
Most people in Utah might not know that Pennsylvania is the Keystone State. Philadelphia and all that history, you know, where America was born? It’s the state that held all the other . . . oh, never mind. I don’t think anybody in the room knew what I was talking about either. Their blinking, blank eyes gave it away.
Pharmacists and techs, who live every moment in left-brain thought, filled the room.They could not fathom that I had the perfect job one time: a newspaper reporter—my ideal identity. I wrote to my heart's content every day.
|Proudest Moment--That's me, in red, getting ready to shake "Somebody's" hand.|
Though many past tense, has-been claims flitted across my mind that day last week, the one thing on my bucket list, yet to be accomplished, is to have my first novel published. It’s why I joined ANWA.
Information from the chapter meetings, emails, website, newsletter and Facebook is invaluable. ANWA members have been very kind to me. I feel buoyed up, loved, inspired to be a better writer.
With that said, I heartily accept this blogging challenge. Chin up. Back straight. Hands poised over keyboard. There’s no trepidation—well, maybe slight trepidation—OK, a lot of trepidation.
Nevertheless, I will see you here every other Thursday. Deadlines are good.
I can say I’ll do my best, but I can’t say I’ll hit the ground running, because, well, it’s hard to run with a crutch. Smiley face.