My Christmas cards are nearly ready to go out! Yay! And in record lateness for me, too! All I need to do is sign them, pick up our family photos at the store and buy a new ink cartridge and print out the rest of the letters and then stuff it all, put return labels on and stamp them! Pshaw - if I hold off sending them two more days it's possible half the people won't even get them before Christmas!
And why was this year harder? Undeniably, it was that pesky letter. That little update we always send with the cards so people we don't talk to every year know what's going on with us.
I put off writing the letter. Then I wrote it, trashed it, wrote it again, trashed it, wrote it again. Gave it to my husband to read, who handed it back and said, "It's okay. It's lacking something though. It feels like a list of things we did."
And then I realized why it is so hard this year. Tucked under mountains of information about the kids activities and places we've traveled, we've included the fact that I am seriously writing and trying to find an agent.
And that, folks, is the pressure. Because if I am a writer who wants to be published, surely I can write one measly little creative Christmas letter, right? One that everyone would read and say, "Oh! She should be a writer! She could get even this stuff published!" Every line I write, I think, is this good enough? Is this something an author -a real, published writer - might write?
The pressure, people, is like an anvil weighing down on me. I kick. I scream. I cry. Well, not outright, but inside I am. Finally, the hubby says, "just tell them to come read the blog."
What a great solution! Happily I type this in. Ha! I think. I'm done.
Then I see this blog and think, shoot. It ain't like this is all that creative and entertaining either. I guess I won't be writing memoirs any time soon!
Alert the press. Cards are going to be late this year. I think I need a good glass of egg nog.