Homage

Time was, I wanted to be a writer. There wasn't much else I was particularly good at, except maybe doling out advice, shaking my booty, and tying cherry stems in knots with my tongue. The advice thing I guess could have spun into psychology or something; my booty shaking was only ever good enough to make guys want me, never good enough for a stage; and the cherry stem thing is just a trite way of implying what other twisty things I can do with my tongue. But writing? I thought that was going to be my life. I thought it in big, grand, neon lights kind of ways, never in the way that you have to actually sit down and do it, muddle through, churn it out, take criticism, be rejected, and fight through days and days and maybe months or years of constipated creativity.

Though I still cling to the hope of being paid to write, it's a tarnished hope, one that's eclipsed by bills and time and fear. Mostly fear. You know that saying, "those who can't do, teach"? Well, those who can't write, edit. And that's me. I edit.

But today, I'm supposed to review the blog of a writer. One who does the work of writing, with discipline and apparent joy and determination. And honestly, I'm a little starstruck. Not because she's famous. I don't know her from Adam. I'm starstruck for the simple fact that she does it. She lives it. And that, to me, is brave.

Okay, Fine, Dammit (cute name, eh?)

The design of this blog is fine. It's uncluttered, neat, easy to navigate. Slightly boring and bland, but it does the trick. I'd like an About page, though. The design could be punched up several notches to create more visual interest, but it's not really vital. The writing, for me, creates enough interest.

When I review a blog, unless it's a hot mess of a thing that makes my eyes bleed--and even then, really--I tend to read the whole thing. I like to get a full picture of the blogger. Sometimes it's a struggle through pointless drivel and self-important posturing and crippling mundanities. This time, it was a joy. Because Maggie? She can write.

There's a quiet strength to her voice, and a precious attention to life that expresses joy and wonder. She's a mom, and a blogger, but not a mommy blogger. She writes about her kids with humor and humility. They're not appendages, they're whole people, who she respects and, I suspect, feels humbled by. And she's warm-hearted, but not in a way that makes me want to smack the ever-loving shit out of her, as do some namby pamby feel-good bloggers.

And she's funny. Maybe not rip-roaring, and not with the crass vulgarity that I so often enjoy (and emit). But it's a gentle, self-deprecating humor. Nuanced rather than overt.

My one complaint? That she's a bit hampered by lack of anonymity. My favorite post was written from a place of pain, and it was posted, I'm sure, with eyes closed, praying while hitting "publish," hoping that she hadn't revealed too much. Well, for me, it wasn't enough. It hit the tip of the iceberg of what I think this woman can express were she unencumbered by fear of discovery. Or reprisal.

I'm adding this to my daily reads. I want more. I love her writing. And I hate her for it. In the best possible way.