Blogpostathon 2017 comes to a close

I think there may be a future where I will finish 40 posts -- but the real deal is 40 posts in 40 days. I tried to stretch it out and just say "40 posts," and I've gotten a few likes and retweets from fellow writers on the Twittersphere because 40 posts in a few months is a lot. I mean, there are bloggers out there that just post once a week.

That's only 52 posts.

If you is a person that only posts 52 a year...that be sad. 

Like, c'mon. Be a content whore. If you've got readers...give them what they want.

More of you.

I may have only written over 30, but that's a half-year's worth of posts. 

But the truth's not 40 posts in a few months, it's 40 posts in 40 days.

A chance to blast open and write.

I'm guilty of not letting myself follow those rules. I want to blast open and pour forth, but like any writer, I don't want it to be badness.

In forty days, some of the posts are going to be winners, and others are going to be loathsome -- at least from my point of view -- and the point of my blogpostathon is to just write.

Take no prisoners.

Do not look back.

I borrowed the ideology from the creators of National Novel Writing Month. The goal in mind is to write 50,000 words in November. A novel. Don't look back and don't worry about errors. It's all about fleshing out characters and plots and scenes while running and screaming.

Write like your hair is on fire. 

It's brilliant. I've finished two novels through the gut-wrenching process. My teaching takes a back-seat. I lose sleep. It's absolutely amazing. I feel like a small dachshund with his head out the car window, the wind blowing his ears.

There could be some howling, too.

I'm currently working on editing and querying one of the novels I finished a couple years back. I'm trying to make the book real. Not just for me, but for others.

I've even written thousands of words while succumbed to pneumonia because of National Novel Writing Month.

I mean, if I can write while healing from a bout of pneumonia...then, a healthy me can easily pound out 40 posts in 40 days.

But just like any writer, I got in my own way.

This summer has been no different. I've looked at a blank screen and got in my own way with some Ronald McDonald shoes, tripped, and then curled up on the floor and decided to do yard work instead.

What's wrong with me?

I actually have done yard work instead of write.

I'm avoiding writing. Hard. And I don't even know why.

As a teacher, these are my months off with vapid amounts of time.

What do I do with it?

I look writing in the face and say, "Nope, I'm going to work in the yard instead."

Here's the thing about yard work -- I dislike it. Vehemently. It's one of the necessary evils in my life, just like getting the oil changed, and cleaning out the gutters.

My grandma once said, "Oh, you'll like it once you own a house."

No, grandma. I won't.

She tried to be all, "I'm old and wise and know what I'm talking about."

And even though I was young, and the only grandchild that raked up the leaves in their giant yard, I don't run through my backyard like Julie Andrew.

What I want to tell my grandma now is, "I do yard work because it's a necessary evil."

And here I do it instead of write.

You would think that I hate writing.