That is the number of times I’ve actually finished a month long challenge… of any sort. I’m not real sure I’ve successfully completed even a week long challenge, if I’m being honest. Zero is also the number of fucks I give that it was not done on time. Three days late? I’m good with that. I’m proud of myself for committing and for once, not quitting when it wasn’t as fun as I wanted it to be.
When I don’t feel like sitting down to write and end up deleting the first 12 drafts, it still doesn’t suck and that’s my favorite lesson learned. Every post I’ve written in the last 30(ish) days wouldn’t have existed without the fear of failure, which is just what I needed. I reminisced about stealing a car, I bitched about transgender bathroom policies and I penned a piece of fiction that turned out to be one of my favorite contributions to Friday Fictioneers.
I’m so happy I was forced to sit and write.
I blog not only in an attempt to entertain (while being entertained) but so I have something to look back on. While sitting at my computer I wind up remembering people, places, things and memories I previously forgot existed, like the time my kid tried to plunge the toilet with a towel.
…40 years from now, I want to remember that again.
It’s been two years since Properly Ridiculous was born. So far, almost 300 stories, rants and randomness have been documented and shared, cast out into the world wide web. When I’m gone, I hope my great-great-grandkids can stumble upon my words and be thrilled to find out their granny was kinda crazy; that’s my goal.
The A to Z Challenge allowed me to stir up topics I otherwise wouldn’t have been inspired by and provided the structure (even if I bent it) I needed to get back into the habit of writing on a consistent basis – for myself. Thank you to the individuals who kept me on track, calling me out when I was falling behind and for spending your time reading my madness. With that being said, there will be less posting on Properly Ridiculous while I take my next challenge even more seriously – getting my book published.
I’d really like to change my Twitter description from wanna be novelist to, I actually wrote a book, like a real one.
“Be courageous and try to write in a way that scares you a little.” :Holley Gerth
You put your personal thoughts out there to be judged… and people are harsh.
Are people going to think I’m strange if I say this or that? What if I want to say Fuck, sometimes it’s necessary, but I don’t want people to think less of me…
I didn’t start calling myself a writer until I stopped allowing other people’s opinions to affect the words I jot down. For every person who think’s I’m odd, bitchy, not politically correct enough or just flat out doesn’t like me, there are plenty more who are just as fucked up as I am & can appreciate what I have to say.
I’ve mentioned wanting to write a book one or two, possibly a thousand times. It’s obnoxiously similar to my, I-should-start-a-blog statements I was making years ago…and then I finally did it.
I finally feel ready for my next feat. The idea of writing a book is more intriguing than scary at this point. I have so many stories that have started to form, swirling around in my head…but none have gotten me excited enough to physically write it out, develop characters & an entire story line.
An idea I can’t shake has finally entered my busy brain & I’m ready to start my next challenge.
I don’t know how long it’ll take me & I do not care.
One year ago I signed up for WordPress & published my first post 6 days later.
In this span of time, I’ve managed to convince 683 people to keep an eye on it. I watched that number go up and down quite a bit – depending on what was being ranted, raved or praised. I’ve monitored the traffic behind it all, almost to a fault.
I’ve watched my writing progress & change. I’ve explored different styles; wrote my very first fiction & followed with a few more. I attempted to make sense of crazy trials, news stories, missing planes, made my fear of Ebola known & told a whole-lotta people to STFU.
I struggled through my ridiculous anxiety, and learned how to curb it. Later in the year, listened to an audio book that rocked my socks off & told everyone to just go out and follow your own arrow. I Attempted to explain resting bitch face … In turn, I was kinda bitchy about smoking & littering.
I’ve documented my son growing up, his continuing crush on the Tooth Fairy … & when he tried to plunge the toilet with a towel. Yeah, It Happened. I’m so happy it’s written down & saved for his future girlfriends.
Since I’m obviously a professional, I shared the wealth of knowledge and told you how to raise your kids also.
I made my love for football well known. Wrote a few open letters to Jared Allen & Brett Favre. Stuck up for Adrian Peterson & Ray Rice, called out ignorant football fans & directly told the entire NFL to get it together.
I turned thirty and intentionally have not changed my About Me page to reflect that; Properly Ridiculous will forever be, pushing 30. It’s been a good year & next will be better.
Thank you, 683 people who validate my lack of a filter.
I’m moving in one week & recently accepted a new position at work.
I miss writing.
I’ll be back.
Give me a week or two.
Properly Ridiculous has not been abandoned.
My husband is taking our son to the Milwaukee Bucks Season Opener tonight. When this first came about we were a tad worried he’d be bummed to miss out on more candy.
[He did get to go trick-or-treating downtown on main street on Wednesday. #ILoveSmallTownLocalBusinesses.]
My child is lazy. Why would I say that? Well…when we told him he was going to the Bucks game instead of candy collecting…this was his response:
YAY! Now I don’t have to spend the whole day and night walking around…
Who is this kid? If I didn’t grow him in my very own stomach I’d be worried he’s not mine. The good news is: the crisis was averted & he could care less about the candy.
What’s that? …What do I have planned tonight then?
I’ll tell you.
…the possibilities are endless.
My porch light is not on. Sorry Kids… Move along; it’s Mama’s night alone. Let me be.