Remember when Jo March needed to write (well, only if you were ever a bookish, 12-year-old girl you might). She would put on her black pinafore (for the ink stains), tie her long hair back, and retreat to the garret. She would emerge, exhausted, but with stories and poems in her hands. No one dared to bother her when she was in the garret. It was holy territory.
I loved
Little Women. I mean, LOVED, obsessively. Really. I re-read the sentimental novel several times a year through elementary and middle school. I cast my friends as the March sisters. I believed I was Jo--bookish, awkward, foot perpetually in my mouth. And I wanted a garret. Really. And maybe a black pinafore, too.
For a while, my reading and writing were confined to college syllabi and term papers. Then as a teacher, I just barely stayed ahead of my students' reading assignments. My fingers were stained with more red ink than black. My writing limited to comments and corrections, some times poetic or witty. Many times biting and sarcastic. And repetitive. High schoolers generally just don't get it.
But now I'm "Mom." My writing is limited to the alphabet and the grocery list, usually in crayon.
The whole idea of a blog, of writing and anonymously pseudo-publishing, has baffled me for quite some time. I honestly just didn't get it. I'm not into MySpace or Facebook either. This doesn't count as community and maybe not even as communication. Still, the medium and the outlet are intriguing. And I'm much better in print than I am in conversation. I sometimes wish I could have all my communication written down.
So, I'll enter the world of blog, while sitting in my sunroom office, a far cry from Jo's dark attic garret. This is my garret room for now. It's not nearly as secluded and definately not revered. But it will do.
