Tomorrow I will begin my second challenge of 24 in 24. This time I will venture to write twenty-four short stories in twenty-four hours. This one scares me more than the 20 plus kilometers I plan to run pushing my two girls in tomorrow.
I have always wanted to write. Always hoped that I could be good at it. Of course my instinctual question of “who the hell cares?” always came up and so I stopped trying.
I remember back in my NYC days drinking a four pack of beer, sitting out on the balcony of my apartment in the ghetto of Jersey City and writing some pretty crass, perverted poetry. Some how I believed that the romantic mixture of cheap beer and dangerous surroundings would assist me in creating something worth sharing. I don’t know where any of that crap is anymore, and that’s probably for the best.
Fifteen years later, here I am trying to pick it back up with hopes of caring more than I did back then. If you asked me now I would have to admit that I pretty much wasted a perfect opportunity back then. Living so close to such a fantastic city, being graced with the friendship of other superbly gifted, creative souls, the atmosphere, a job that allowed me to share space with many well known movie and television stars….I just didn’t have the motivation. The drive. I think it all drained after I got my ass there. I just wanted to ride the wave after that. Dumb ass.
So here I am now; a mother of two who price matches the fliers, cleans shit off of many baby bums, and gets bullied around by three year olds. And some how I think I can find the inspiration to write. Well, we will find out tomorrow if I’ve got anything in here worth giving. Wish me luck. I promise to share at least a couple small things on here Sunday.