Dung, dung, dung, dunnng …

Dung, dung, dung, dunng …

That’s it. I’ve done all I can. Sold the house. Packed up the dog and desk to relocate to the homeland. I’ve knitted a sweater, made Mexican food for family, driven in daylight and darkness to visit loved ones. Last night, I painted my nails pink. Today, I’ve responded or deleted every last email, including dozens from “Write to Done” – giving me loads of tips on writing to done. I can’t put it off any longer. It’s time to write.

Who cares where I write. At least my nails are pink.

Yes, write. I’ve been having too much fun.

WordScarab has been an good outlet. A place to post thoughts du jour, or, umm, du prochaine (of the week.) Now it’s time for my life’s calling – some slick magazine articles and the book.

Ughhh. The book. If only I hadn’t deleted 20,000 of the 26,000 words written more than a year ago. It was that instructor at the DePaul Writer’s Conference. I thought the book was half full.

“Uh, no. I’d say, based on today’s works, you may be a quarter-to-a-third of the way there.”

I should have stayed home from school that day.

Then this.

“But what will you do to make money?” a friend asked. Exactly. I could contract for business writing – something I got pretty good at over 30 years. (Let’s hope, right? After 30 years?) But I’ve done that. I enjoyed covering the arts for The Las Cruces Bulletin, a side job I assigned myself while I was managing editor. And seeing my name in print. That is just so much fun. Isn’t that why most journalists write for peanuts? Imagine:

HEADLINE by Your Name Here

Maybe you even get a column photo. 

As a writer, one gets to expound upon subjects that are close to one’s heart. To paint a picture with fewer than a thousand words and have readers say, “Hey, great job.” Or, “I didn’t know that,” or “Ya know, I thought that but was afraid to say it.”

The best comment so far was from a friend who said she would read my Christmas blog 50 times before her sibling showed up for the annual dinner. Changing lives. That’s the best part about writing.

It’s about life, and the fact that living life is a bit like watching sausage makers. You may like the results but you don’t want to know about the process. I’ve been through the tunnel many times and I’m no longer afraid of the process. Besides, in sharing, maybe you’ll create your own recipe that doesn’t involve dicing, shredding or boiling the parts of your life that have fallen to the slaughterhouse floor. (As the case may be!)

WordScarab is a self-deprecating term for my writing. Scarabs are the sacred, honored Egyptian dung beetle. They are known for making something out of nothing.

Simply? Dung beetles find food in poop and plant their eggs in it. Circle of life stuff. Down and dirty. My thought is to find nuggets of wisdom in the detritus of life, in other words, in the everyday sausage-making. Maybe there’s something in my recipe for all of us. Better, you refine the recipe and make life tastier for you and the people you love.

In the meantime, I must get to the book. OH SHOOT! I chipped a nail. Where’s that pink polish?

3 responses to “Dung, dung, dung, dunnng …

  1. pictures are great!!! saving them all. Thanks for the visit. your honest about crowds of youngens. Head for the hills. Takes time and and a case of num brain. Come again. love ya

  2. I think this is your finest yet. Not sure why…maybe because I write too. I get the sausage, but I still avoid it. My husband and children don’t like when I make sausage….but there’s no question that what is at the Octoberfest is blisssssss. 🙂

    I also get the pink nail polish. I don’t think it’s just by chance that JK Rowling wrote at a cafe. No polish there…. “Off site” has been my new motto and has worked for me.

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