Oh blogging.

To blog or not to blog, that is the question. Whether it's worth it to bare ones' soul with the knowledge that some self centred idiot will assume it's about them, or to remain in the silent shadows of certainty..... LOL as if. 

So worth it :P

I have always written, back in my childhood I wrote before I could even form words. My mum kept some of these and told me I would "read" them to her. Just pieces of paper with scribbles and loops, all forming a "story". 

In my head, I have written a thousand novels in the air. 

My self-help genre is a generalized bust, simply because my sarcasm and self-deprecation is nauseating at best. 

My romance genre is pretty tacky, with intimacy lacking any depth and the heroine ending up alone is some bush, pining for the moron who preferred the busty blonde. Blah.

Adventures usually take a turn at the cheese-grater to the knee-cap torture. I get so lost in details that I forget what the point of the story was.

My dramas are sweeping epics that never really have a good starting and can't seem to end. They are brimming with mysterious people who come and go with no real reason. 

My horrors are not that horrific, they generally get lost in my sense of humor and become a tragedy of major proportion. "Big Scawy Beasteses" end up being nothing more then a spider on a lamp casting a shadow.

Irony of all this is I have never actually sat and written anything more then my musings, or poems, or pros. 

But readers of my mind can turn the pages from the twinkly edges of my eye and get the punch line from my laugh. Tongue in cheek, sneaky sneaky.  

Those who think I'm writing about them, smile...at least you can imagine you are in my mind. Perhaps you are. 

Could be the very moment my words connect with your eyes, we are one. 

Why not? 

Anything is possible......