Where Do You Draw The Line?

As a writer, we're bombarded with emails. It's our own fault. We signed up for every newsletter available.

As the Internet became the popular breeding ground for writers seeking to advance their careers, we found ourselves overwhelmed with information.

If you're a writer, you know what I'm talking about. How much time have you spent, reading one blog after another? Do you find yourself caught in a maze of Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace? How many Writer's Digest and Publishers Lunch emails land in your Inbox each week?

Then there are the writing groups and conferences, all pulling for your attention. Shoot, I just want to go for coffee with my writing buddy, Dena. Talk writing. Gossip. Share the latest in our quest for bestseller-status. Laugh about it.

Throw in a full-time job, family time, time to clean the house, mow the yard, and do the laundry ... hells bells, it's no wonder we're frustrated. We squeeze writing and editing time into the early morning hours or late in the day. Occasionally, when things are slow at work, I can write a blog. Like now.

As I sit here now, I yearn for the days to attend another writing conference, plan my next publicity and speaking tour, support the open-mic in Winston-Salem with the Writer's Group. I'd give a kidney for non-stop writing time. I want to live in my stories. Start the next book. Finish the current one.

Setting priorities is tough when there's so many of them.

I need a new website, gather my thoughts for a few magazine articles I'm wanting to write, set my writing goals for the rest of the year. The list becomes longer as I think about it. I'm ready to draw the line.

So very ready.

Blessings to you and yours.

Practice What You Preach, Pam. Take Time To Blog.

Where has the month gone? I strolled through Garden Ridge the other day. You know, the cheapie store that sells housewares. Well, I kid you not, they've stuffed the front of the store with Halloween yard decorations. Front and center. Smack dab as you walk through the door. Christmas trees and walls filled with every ornament imaginable are just beyond the pumpkins and broomsticks. Of course, summertime clearance items are now stashed way in the back.

I hate it when stores rob us of our time.

Our time on this earth is so fleeting. My children visited recently and we poured through bags of old pictures ... sighing ... remembering. They were babies only yesterday, it seems. Laughing and crying over one memory and the next, it made me stop and ponder real hard about how little time we have to make life matter. To write a letter. To perform a kindness. To learn from our mistakes. To say we're sorry. To express our love. To call an old friend. To rest. To leave a legacy.

To blog.

Take time to make life matter.

Don't let time take you.

Blessings to you and yours.

Garage Sales Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

Yeah, Yeah … another garage sale blog. But did you know, oh faithful reader, that there’s a dark side to these blissful Saturday morning outings?

A couple weeks ago my husband and I started out early. After three successful stops and a trunk full of rock-bottom, dirt-cheap, slap-me-silly fabulous finds, we ventured to the west side of town. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a gum-chewing, cell phone-gabber (and quite possibly texting) woman, bore down on our backside. She might as well have hitched a ride on our bumper and saved her gas.

My husband growled. “She’s too close!” And I said, as I ignored him, “Slow down, there’s big ole’ yard sale up ahead in that empty pasture next to the County Line Grocery.” So, he did what all obedient garage-saleing husbands do. He slowed down, put his signal on, and proceeded to turn right into the parking lot. Until …

SCREECH! WHAM! BAM!

The bumper-hugging woman rammed into us like two 1972 Ford Zephyrs battling it out in a Demolition Derby. Her air bags deployed. Her front end was smashed up to her steering wheel, and obviously she didn’t have her seat belt on. Her chin was a bloody mess.

We were shaken up a bit. But not injured.

The Fire Department, EMTs, and State Police showed up. Quite the three-ring circus, I must say. Nobody was hurt enough to go to the hospital, thank God for that.

She and my husband exchanged a few not-so-pleasant words. She said, “I was following one car length!”

“ONE car length?!?” Michael shook his head. “Go back and read your driver’s education manual! At 50 mph, you should’ve been FIVE car lengths behind us!”

Well … you can imagine the rest.

Needless to say, she totaled her car. We, on the other hand, drove away with just a few scratches.

But the worst thing was … we missed the garage sale.

Phooey.

Blessings to you and yours.