How to Start a Blog
This is the bare, rough, un-sanded, unvarnished walls of my life. It seems odd to me to just jump into an essay without laying out an outline of sorts though. Who am I? What am I going to write? Why am I writing and why would anyone read it?
It doesn’t matter to me much at this point whether anyone reads it. There are things spilling out of me that aren’t appropriate for my cutsey baby blog and I need to write them down. I’ve always been a bit of an exhibitionist and what better way to expose oneself than to post it online for all the world to see?
I suppose I think a lot of myself, imagining that the world will give a shit about peeking into my soul, no? All the same, maybe I won’t feel like Orville Redenbaker’s love child if I can just spit out the kernels.
I’m no George Ella Lyon, but I’m pleased with the result. It was really interesting to do. I thought it would be a bitter diatribe about my younger years but it wasn’t at all! I’d like to do it again next year. I’m sure it would be different every time, reflecting where I am in my life at that moment. So here is my introduction:
I am from avocado green walls, carpet, and appliances; from Covergirl Blush and Seventeen Magazine.
I am from same-as-same ranch-style, nondescript, beachy suburbia, with a creepy guy living down the street.
I am from the St. Augustine grass, oleander hedges, salty sand, always humid air.
I am from Christmas stockings filled with oranges and nuts, sweet tea drunk from mason jars at Daddy’s side’s family reunions, too loud laughter from this side and admonishments to hush from that side.
I am from Bear and Sally, from Dorothy B and a man I never knew, from Nancy and, grudgingly, George.
I am from the stoic and the emotional, the quiet and the boisterous, the pious and the raucous.
From I’m gonna skin you alive, give me some sugar, and you never consider the consequences.
I am from hellfire & brimstone Baptists who never drank or danced and nominal Methodists who played cards and weren’t afraid of gin.
I’m from Wauchula, Stuart, the Scots, the Germans; the sour cream pound cakes and hot dog casseroles.
From the great grandma rumored to be half Cherokee and taller than any man, a secret child, Papa’s mysterious missing fingers, and the crib death no one spoke of.
I am from scattered artifacts; some missing, some locked away, some better buried. From hot Januarys, angsty teen years, scary woods, mama crying again, and road trips to Disney.