Blah, Blah, Blah

I sit with my laptop in front of me this evening and I've no idea of what to write. I've read and commented to all the blogs on my bloglist I've read and responded to all of my e-mails. I finished my latest read yesterday and the American Idol season finale was last night. My life is momentarily at a standstill. Lon left a few minutes ago to go to Menard's for something he needed. My wine glass is empty and dinner has been served and eaten. (Please note that when I published this post, a few of my opening words traveled up to the left side of the photo of our marigolds. I seem to have little control over them at times. What can I say?)

I've learned that I don't need a writing idea in order to write. If I sit in front of my computer and confess that I don't have a strong motive for being there, words and thoughts will begin to trickle in. For instance, if I look to my right, I've a splendid view of the backyard. Splendid except for the fact that Lon dissembled our bird bath and its pretty setting so the septic tank can be pumped tomorrow. He had a nice two-tier log box filled with red stone as a base for the bird bath. The stones are now in a bucket and the box is lying upside down with mud caked to its underside and metal rods sticking up from the corners.

A wooden barrel sits about six feet from me on the wooden deck beyond the sliding glass door at my right. Lon planted orange and yellow marigolds in it on Sunday. He watered the little plants a little while ago so the dirt is black and the water that dripped from the hose onto the deck is beading up on the newly treated boards.

A soft breeze is disturbing the branches furthest from the trunk of our pin oak tree. We've lived here since 1972 and the trees we planted after the house was built have had 37 years of growth. From my stool, I can't begin to see to the top of the oak tree. The new leaves are a light, almost lime green color and the entire appearance of the pin oak tree always gives me a cool buoyant feeling when I look its way.

I just noticed a gray cat cutting through our yard on his way to places beyond, while birds are chirping from somewhere out of my sight. Some birds maintain a low-key chatter while others startle me with their high-pitched notes. I love to open the windows and hear the sounds of leaves responding to the wind and the chorus of insects and birds coming in from all the trees and shrubs surrounding the house.

See what I mean. I had no idea to go on when I sat down to write, but I have two eyes and two ears, ten fingers and a brain. I don't expect what I've written to be of much interest to anyone, yet I hope I've proven that there is always something to put into words. For me, writing is fun and full of surprises. The key to writing, initially, is to give yourself permission to write badly. Plan to throw everything you write into the wastebasket until you begin to see value in your words. With practice, improvement comes.

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(It may seem inappropriate and unpleasant that I mentioned our septic tank in this post. Before I took any writing classes, I'd have avoided any reference to it. I've learned that "telling it like it is" proves to be more captivating to the reader.)

Alrighty, then. Like Forrest Gump, that's all I've got to say about that.