I’m so happy to see so many people jumping in to the Beta version. It’s Beta because some people are having trouble with the linky. BUT! Hey! Look what we figured out- Wordpress.Com makes us want to hurl ourselves out a window!

No, wait, I knew that.

I’ll be posting my most embarrassing story later. For now, though, here’s what these awesome people are up to:

Remember back when Writing Well Was The Best Revenge? It seems that in the wake of the millions of bloggers coming online in the past five years or so, everyone forgot what we were here for: Writing. Community. Challenge.

I look through my own archives and see when I used to write. People would spur me on, challenge me to be a better communicator, to relate a story in a more dynamic way, to share a piece of our lives in a way that touched you. Then it became about money, stats, popularity. The rise of “monetizing” seemed to crush the spirit of the well-written blog. Bloggers no longer needed to write well because the goal is traffic, which comes via selfish motives seeking deals, a quick feel-good popcorn laugh at an “LOL Cat” or train-wrecks addicted to drama. It’s not as much about writing as it is about selling your site, and yourself.

Recently, I reached out to some close blog friends* who have also maintained their stance and continued to write over the years. I asked a simple question, “Will you help me to write again?” Their reply was overwhelming. The community is there, in private, aching to spur and be spurred on. The fire is beginning to flare and we’re reaching out to each other begging to be accountable for our content.

We know that our websites are often passed over by those looking for the 10 second hit. We understand, and are simultaneously conflicted, that the community values 140 characters over well-written posts. And in some ways, I not only take notice, but am also proud of the fact, that it does not take a well-written blog to reach tens of thousands of people.

Anissa is proof of that.

Anissa has written well, standing up to the test of blog-time, writing, poring out her heart in amazing essays. Her feed said 200 readers. Her stats were not off the charts. She had, in many people’s eyes, a “small” blog. A fabulous blog, but not a high trafficked one.

She wrote. She did not post deals or LOL cats or drama. She wrote.

But when her body gave in to a stroke, we realize how many people she touched (both figuratively and literally). She is a dynamic lady both capable of writing well and touching lives. Her blog may not have reflected all the thousands of people who adored her, but it did not matter. They do. They come out to support her and her family. Her stats go up, sure, but in my eyes it’s only that people realize what they have here, and what we’re all missing. We’re missing Anissa.

The lesson here? Keep writing. Ignore the stats. Write. Challenge yourself. You are touching lives, you are making a difference and if you truly are here, as so many bloggers claim, to “write for yourself,” take the pledge. Write.

A long while ago I read “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott. I would sit in the coffee shop with a few friends and we would take a piece of her advice. We picked a topic and we wrote. Then we traded our essays, critiqued one-another, and wrote some more. Call it a writer’s support group. Call it batshit crazy. Either way, the accountability to be more than you were before is something you can’t explain until you have it.

Anne Lamott says to write shitty first drafts, to have people read your writing, your shitty first drafts, and give you feedback. She says you take it bird-by-bird. Take the steps, baby steps, to a better written word.

The call to action: Join us. Join our small group of passionate writers. It takes all kinds of writers, journalist, essayist, long-winded and short-spunky authors. Humor, Drama, Literal, Figurative. People who use “AND” too much at the start of the sentences and people who forget to capitalize. Take the challenge and write with us. Take our {w}rite-of-passage.

How it works: We’ll be posting two things a week:
1. A topic to write on.
2. A linky list.

If you’re planning on taking the challenge, take the week’s topic and write. Write your shitty first draft. Publish it. Take the linky list and place it in your post. As people join, the link list will grow on each and every blog who participates. People will find you, help you explore your written communication, and you will have the opportunity to prove that Writing Well Still Is The Best Revenge.

Write with us.

*Special thanks to the ladies that spurred me on to this project:
Amanda
Syd
Megan
Jenny
Jamie
Heather
Loralee
Lotus
Dawn and V
Aimee
Karen

And if you’re still reading, bygod you’re brave.

It’s one of those stereotype things that all women experience… and curse. It totals 3 minutes of actual embarrassment and the rest is valuable information. My boobies are soft and ok! My hayhay is fine! My abs are totally broken! It’s predictable almost. It’s comfortably predictable. Unless something isn’t right and then it’s horrifying.

A week ago I found a bulge above my belly button following a difficult ab routine. It’s long recognized that my abs not only separated during my second pregnancy, they were in two different time zones.

Exibit A)

So it’s no surprise, then, that I struggle with floppy abs and separation to this day, two and a half years later. This “bulge” above the belly button is fairly common in women whose abs have not met again. It’s a matter of how severe this bulge is that will direct the course of action.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping they had to go in and fix it all up and maybe sorda put my abs back at the same time. And use some suction or something. Just sayin’.

In addition, anyone who has had one or more miscarriages knows what you’re looking at when you see… well.. the baby. It’s amazing how well you can know your body so you can see when something is wrong.

Something is wrong.

Or something was wrong.

I’m not wanting, nor are we needing, any more babies. We’re OK without more children. We’re happy. We’re complete. Not to say I don’t sometimes wonder what another child would bring to the family. It’s just that we’re not prepared, or trying, to expand our family. So it comes as a bit of a shock what I found today.

I plan to discuss this in depth with my doctor while my legs are in the air and my striped socks are on my feet and a sheet separates my dignity from the light of a thousand suns.

I’ll let you know what she says. And if I’m getting a free tummy-tuck ‘cause hey, one can dream, right?

One of my favorite things about my daughter is how unique she is.

One of the things I least like about my daughter is how like me she is.

I can identify with a five year old girl. I remember thinking out some of the same things she does. I remember laying on the floor of our new house in Friendswood, TX, crying. I didn’t know why I was crying, but I was crying. I remember my dad, so tall, leaning in the room and asking, “What are you crying for NOW.”

I remember that moment like it was yesterday, not thirty years ago. It’s either a curse or a blessing that I do because I now have a five year old that I bite my tongue when all I want to say is, “What are you crying for NOW.”

So with every dramatic set of water works, with each dance, with all the arguments, I roll my eyes because I know. I know. I did those same things.

And I’m plagued with them again.

It’s true what they say, your parents will never look smarter than when you’re an adult. I’m stuck in the middle- I’m watching my history and living my mother’s past and seeing my future as my parents age. To say it’s enlightening is an under-statement.

Enlightening my ass- it’s scary.

I have clear memories at five. I have memories of my parents at five. I have quotes. I have actions. I have distinct moments that I’ve carried with me for 29 years now. Knowing this, I second guess myself too often. She’ll remember it now. From now on, she’ll remember.

I don’t want it to be that one frustrated sentence I bark at her that she carries with her to adulthood. But I understand now my Dad’s view. I understand being frustrated at a sensitive girl. I get that moment now. I see it from his view. But I’m also seeing it from hers.

In that moment, those moments, if I just make one choice different, it is to hug her before I yell. Maybe she will carry that with her to adulthood and keep her silly dances and her silly side. Maybe she’ll grow to love herself and her own unique style, even if it is a little like her Mother’s.

Just maybe.

My Two Year Old has the English Language down pat. “Eat?” He leans his head to the side inquisitively. “Milk?”

It’s not that he’s behind on his speech, because believe me, he’s not. He’s learned a plethora of words from his five year old sister. In fact, he’s now sounding out words in book. No, I’m not making this up and yes, I’ve already got him targeted as the next Flinger-Coder in the house, hopefully starting early 2011.

No, it’s not developmental delay. What it is? Genius.

Why the rest of us walk around wasting our breath for silly things like, “I’m hungry. What should we eat?” when the single word will do? Or why we talk circles in meetings when really all we need to say is, “You- don’t do that. Me do it” and move on. And while we’re at it, I think there should be mandatory nap time for adults like two year olds. (It might help my afternoon tantrum phase.) So when my son strings more words together, I know it’s not for fun, it’s out of necessity because I’m not understanding his short version. And when he strings the words, “PUT COMPUTER DOWN AND PLAY WITH ME OK” together, I know he’s really serious.

Which is why I’m officially launching this site, again, and being done.

It all boils down to this single truth: “It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”  ~Frederick Douglass