Morning Pages Journal, January 2006

In 1993, this book was my bible, my lighthouse, my ruby slippers. I had just quit my job to write full-time. Although I was young enough to delight in the horror it caused my mother and father-in-law (children of the Depression, and all that), I wasn't quite old enough to understand the ramifications of what I had done.

Upstairs in the garage our filing cabinets still sit, waiting for their turn to be dusted off and brought into the house. In one of them are reams of manilla folders filled with hundreds upon hundreds of morning pages. They peter out sometime in 1998-1999. That's when all of my lah-dee-dah we have l'amour et l'air frais kinda got stuck in my throat.

Seven years and I had sold nada.

I had my Scarlett O'Hara moment where I swore I'd never wear drapes again-- and off I went skipping into the mouth of the corporate beast, little red riding hood with an empty basket.

After six years in the whale's belly, I need a bath. A serious scrubbing-- maybe a bone marrow transplant.

All of which is to say, be ready for me to ramble (just like this!) all over the freaking map. I am doing this thing for the second time. This time I am not alone, but shoulder to shoulder with scores of other bloggers.

But I couldn't feel more cynical.

And yet, though I may be lacking the blind optimism I once had, I now have tenfold the confidence.

That, and the lowest expectations imaginable.

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