Blog #1 +99

4:34 AM |. This is my first real blog post EVER.

For years I’ve struggled with the idea of what a blog is. It wasn’t until yesterday that I knew exactly what I wanted it to be. What I did know is I was sure I needed to write about something that people would want to read.

I think I’ve read every ‘top 10’ list there is and probably can regurgitate the hundreds of guru writer’s dos-and-don’ts. I bought a fancy-pretty red keyboard and matching mouse. Sage, Linen candles and Spotify writer’s recommended playlist pumped me and prepped me but as soon as I put my fingertips to the keyboard my mind went midnight black.

A Skinny Chai Latté! That’s what every decaffeinated writer lives by. So I went for the gusto; Urban Grind via Uber Eats. The driver pulled to the curb in front of my house bumping James Brown’s, “l Feel Good”. I tipped him an extra $10 just cause he was feeling my pain. Before he opened the door of his spit-shine candy apple red Camero he peeped the crisp cash in his hand and looked up at me. “God bless you Autie!” As Justin drove off and the best of James Brown was fading into the first sunrise of the Summer, should have been nostalgic enough to write anything, let alone my epic virgin blog.

So before I walked back up the steps of my front porch I took in one last look at the skyline that has kept my residency downtown for 13 years. Atlanta was showing off her beauty. Summer was allowing Spring one last fling as the sunrise illuminated the dew resting heavily on the grass like Saran Wrap. I closed my eyes and drew my hoodie close to initiate a self hug I so desperately needed. I inhaled every bit of confidence I knew; then exhaled. I took a sip of my still hot Latte. And another. The third sip spoke to me. I remembered why I was here; why I wanted to be here. I’d been waiting for this since I knew I wanted to be a writer. I opened my eyes to etch this moment; not where I had come from nor where I dreamed to be but I stood ten-toes-down, threw my eyes open to the sky to savor this moment; I knew that the only moment I really owned was now.

I knew I was bigger than this midnight. Writer’s block they called it. In an odd way I felt like I was letting myself down. I took a deep breath, looked over my left shoulder at my writing room I was so proud of. I had spent winter and spring putting together from thrift shops and curbside sales with a passion I believed would position me for success. . . .

My first all I want to do is write moment was a double-edged blade, a truth that I’ve spent all my life defying. Just before the close of my ninth-grade school year, I couldn’t wait to get home to show my parents my final exam grade in American literature. The comments were neatly penned on the title page by my favorite teacher; a published author with many literary credits, had come out of retirement to teach at our school. Mr. Andrews was hard but fair and always advised with a sliver of promise. His comment:

“You deserve every one of the 110 points of your grade! Your research is impeccable and your word usage; extraordinary. You are a great writer and should consider making a career out of it. And you should definitely consider doing a piece for submission to the Reader’s Digest!”

My mom was thrilled. My dad was not the least bit moved.  

“Don’t you think for one minute that you are going to be a writer. Not in my house! Since you can’t pick a respectable career I will have to do it for you. What makes you think that you can feed a family on a writer’s penny?” (Dad asked a question, never expecting an answer.) You need a good college degree that will get you a good job. You will be a doctor or lawyer so put that journalism nonsense out of your head. I will choose something respectable, and that settles it!”

I looked at my dad and went blank, decades blank. I didn’t write anything for 20 years. The Waterman ink and mahogany ink well and pen set Mom had sacrificed to buy for my twentieth birthday had dried up and my journal made with bamboo paper, imported from Malaysia had yellowed waiting for that first line on blog #1.

It wasn’t until the winter of 1996 that I mustered up enough nerve to submit an article to the National Office on Homelessness quarterly newsletter. “The Cat in the Window” was written from excerpts of my journal as I travel throughout the state of Georgia to bring eyes and ears inside the world of the homeless. Then a few opportunities sought me out to write for a few newsletters and then the cover story of a small urban magazine. I even warmed up to ghost write for a few novels, scripts and business plans.

It wasn’t until today standing on the front porch in my fuzzy sleepers that I realized that I had never given myself credit.  

I probably wouldn’t call the letter I wrote to Santa at age four a serious blog post. But the fact that I was the youngest published author in the local newspaper and the entire state of Florida then and now, something tells me it may have qualified as blog #1. And since then, I’ve blurted out a stream of random thoughts on Facebook and Instagram posts chalked up hundreds of likes but still never really validated any of it as a blog. . . . .

6:32 AM | The Write Chik was conceived.

Here I sit. One sip of Latté, a sentence on the page and another and another. And soon I was on the homestretch of Blog #1. Then doubt crept in and writer’s block gripped the backspace button and before I knew it I was staring at the blank page of  “document #99”.

6:28 AM | 6 Months Later

I took out every journal, notebook, script and sticky notes that life had given me but years of fear had hidden in crates and displayed it’s beautiful spines on bookshelves. Volumes laid open as I read the pages. I had enough ideas and story lines to keep me busy for the next 99 years.

So for the record this is Blog #1. No excuses, typos, unchecked grammar; imperfections included. So at the top of my Top 10 List;

If you want to be a writer; write something—anything, everyday – just write it.

Oh! And then press save, publish and watch the ❤️ roll in.