Confession?

I don't actually have anything to write about today. I just feel like writing something. (I know I hinted at cookie pictures, but I'm feeling too lazy to take and upload any tonight. If you really need a baked goods fix, revisit this post or this post.)

I've always wished, sometimes in the far reaches of my imagination, but still, always, that I could be a writer. Like, a real writer. Who publishes books or short stories or, at crazier times, at least poetry.

But that's so hard. I mean, you have to write things that people want to read (people besides family and close friends). Not just read, though - pay money to read, because that is what buying books is all about. You have to weave together schemes and some sort of plot that doesn't fall apart or drift off course after the first two pages. The characters you create have to leap out of the book and into the lives of the readers. And the setting absolutely has to feel like a place anyone could visit. You have to write a lot, and revise and edit and revise some more. And you have to write really, really well.

I don't do any of those things.

I had every intention of working on that, this summer. Just writing, to practice. To see if I actually do have any stories to tell. I even came up with a couple of rough ideas. But, like studying for the GRE and working on my application to grad school (I promise, I'm starting those things as soon as I'm done with all that Sunday School stuff), my best laid plans gave way to easier activities, like painting every room in the house and going to pilates.

So instead, I have this little blog. And people who love me humor me by reading it and occasionally commenting.

Thank you for indulging me.