Stream of Conscious Saturday Ramble

I thought the title would be a good way to warn you off if you were expecting to read anything cohesive. This probably won't be. This blog is sort of like my sweaty, smelly workout room with scuffed up walls and strewn with random pieces of exercise paraphenalia that probably needs wiping down, but won't be. I like it messy in here. I like the high risk that someone might actually see this or one of the other posts and discover my many imperfections. Why? I'm not really sure. It could be the adolescent in me that never grew past her need to rebel against something or someone. perhaps a part of me that wants to flaunt my imperfections to the world and dare you to call me on it...or to love me in spite of them. Or the semi-public space (I have no idea if anyone ever actually reads this) is stimulating in a way a writer needs to be occasionally stimulated. There's a lot of alone time as a writer. Maybe I'm trying to connect to the world. I'm as baffled by me as anybody.

This morning I woke up with my very first thought being, "I did it." One of my childhood dreams was to grow up and write books. That's not the end of the dream, there's more. But this morning I woke up and said to myself, "I did it. I actually wrote a book. And it's a good one." When looking forward to this day over the years, half of them wondering if I could ever really do it, I thought that when and if I accomplished this monumental goal I'd be ecstatic. Not necessarily in the vein of "I'll be happy when...." but you know, at least feel like jumping up and down, popping open a bottle of champagne happy. But that's not how I feel. I feel very calm. Weirdly calm. Part of me wonders if I've truly integrated this new event or if it just hasn't hit me yet. Another part wonders if, with everything I've been through in my life, with over a dozen near death experiences, if in this momentous occasion excitement isn't the emotion, that for this, maybe there's a reaction longer lasting, ultimately more fulfilling, but as a lifelong adrenaline junkie, I'm having trouble feeling it. I'm pleased, it's not that I feel nothing, but for a lifelong achievement? My reaction is sort of bizarre, don't you think? Maybe I just realize my work isn't over yet. The other part of that childhood dream was to write books that helped people, especially people with similar backgrounds to me and, of course, to one day see one of my books on the best seller list. Maybe that's what I'm saving up for. Okay. It's waffle time.