Roll Out The Holly
Eyeball discharge counts as blood in the writing world.
I haven’t been giving my blog very much of myself lately. Long story, and long stories don’t get readers on blogs. Suffice it to say my best words have been going elsewhere, and I’m still not sure they’re very good.
I spent Friday night reading through my blog comments, and I was worn out by page 648 of 1,647. It was a good tired, though. Some of you have been reading and contributing here almost as long as I have.
You deserve better from me.
So, in the midst of killing some of my darlings in December, I’m going to undertake an ambitious series. Through my tears on Friday, I remembered things have stories, even if I don’t always know the words or comprehend the meaning.
When I first met MTM, he was a brainwashed modernist minimalist, meaning he had exactly three Christmas ornaments. Two of them were pathetic little lights he stuck to a battery and put in his window, and the other was a ceramic Santa figure from the Salvation Army. I still don’t know the story of the lights, but he got the Santa figure because he stood in the cold one holiday season and rang a bell.
Because I’m me, I brought enough ornaments to our marriage to write a blog post a day for the rest of my life. But, I’ll settle for a story a day in the month of December.
Whether you celebrate the holiday or not, things in your life have stories, reminders you kept to recall a fleeting look, a scent or a flame of feeling. May these stories dredge up some of your own. Please share them with me when they call.
Thank you for spending time here.