A Very Good Place to Start

I've started several blogs. Most bloggers do I think before settling on one. Or maybe I'm wrong and everyone is just far less fickle than I. Don't ask me why I thought this was a good idea. It's probably not. As I told my adopted lil sister, Bear, my writing is like my underwear; I could show everyone but I choose not to. Only now am I that five year old in church who stands on a pew and raises her frilly dress. Consider this the proverbial showing of my literary underwear.



Now, that's being said, I've learned my literary modesty. I'll make another assumption in saying that those of us who write have all faced that bitter scorn of rejection. That someone in your past read something you wrote and turned their nose up like you'd served them a cow patty. After that, I learned my words were for me and I became a word troll. I'd like to say that my nose grew bigger, my joints gnarled and my eyes black and beady; that profuse green hair sprouted from my skin and I took to wearing animal pelts... But I didn't. I hid my words like gold in the cave of my mind until one day a friend pulled a Billy Goat Gruff and convinced me to share my treasury. [Convinced: The persuasive method involving the thinly veiled threat of a beating.] Now, after that moment, I never really thought much of it...

But lately, I feel like the universe has been giving me signs. (And that sounds 1/2 as crazy and 2/4 less poetic than I intended.) Maybe it's my turn to share with the world; to throw my fledgling tomes out there to fly or crash?

My brother, the Yeti, his girlfriend gave me a journal. It's beautiful. If you're like me, it is the stuff one salivates over. Artsy, fresh paper, spine still not cracked. *shivers* I am a connoisseur of stationary and this would be a tasty morsel which was received graciously. Back to signs, she told me every woman should journal. That it's good for our souls.

So here we go, soul, a tune up for you. I'm taking a running start and throwing myself 

into a cartwheel; standing up on that proverbial pew and raising the crinoline.

Ready or not, here I come.

Signing off hopeful,

The Call Girl xx