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Change our name to Partridge

I had some really fantastic crap to write about today, but it got a little rowdy here this afternoon, and I went completely off the rails.

My 9-year-old daughter, Lily, is learning the violin; her best friend, who comes home with her after school, is learning the viola; and one of the neighbor boys is learning the trumpet. All three of them were in my living room this afternoon practicing their instruments. AND (suspenseful music) it was totally F-ing awesome--the craziest, loudest afternoon ever. I loved it.

I ended up playing my own trumpet--sorry neighbors--for three hours. My wrists hurt from holding it. My mouth hurts from blowing it--I don't care. I can still hit the notes above the ledger lines. I'm a brass goddess. BOOM!

I used to play that thing out my bedroom window every day from the time I got home from school until way past my bedtime. It was the first and only thing I kicked ass at academically, and then I gave it up in high school to chase boys and kill brain cells.

I accomplished jack shit on the writing front today--which isn't entirely true, because I started a lot of stories, saved, and closed out of them for lack of focus and motivation.

Lily was reading on my bed, while I was bitching out my computer for failing to make my words awesome--for failing to make me the best writer in the world.

"Do you know the difference between supposed to and want to?" She asked me.

"MM Hmmm," I replied dismissively.

"You just said, 'I'm supposed to be writing,' but that's not true," she said, wagging her finger. "You want to be writing. 'Supposed to' means you have to, and you don't have to write anything."

"Potato, po-tah-toe."

She's right. I don't have to do anything. I mean aside from breathing, and eating and drinking liquids so I don't die; everything else is a choice. So I'm choosing to write about nonsense, because I need to feel like I accomplished something today. And reacquainting myself with the trumpet doesn't have the same accomplishment weight that writing does.

Even when the writing is complete shit, at least it's out of my system so there's room for something less shitty to grow in my brain.


  1. That trumpet has its own magic!! You now have something new to write about!!

  2. dude. . . it's so true, right? that girl you have. she's pretty brilliant. don't go letting it go to your head.


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