I play mental tricks in my head in Spanish. It’s fun. Like wandering a corn maze, or stepping into one of those wind tunnels, grabbing for hundred-dollar bills. (I almost said one-dollar bills, but that would be far less fun.)
Do you remember QVC? Their countdowns, parading foxy shawls, bathrobes, and foot soaks across the camera until the inventory clicks down to zero. I recently watched a live plant sale just like that. How badly I wanted to drop those nukes—er, I mean—buy that velvety Alocasia Antorl. “It’s the blackest you can get,” the young man and his friend boasted, standing in front of four-tiered shelves crammed with plants.
I was impressed by the free shipping and their prices—I even checked a few sites to compare. Had I needed to spend money, that velvety black beauty would already be boxed up, making its short trek up from Florida. Instead, I tucked the idea away, adding it to my never-ending family plant wish list for another day.
I’ve been told that my writing reminds people of Bill Bryson and the author of Eat, Pray, Love. Today, on Facebook, a mom from our homeschool co-op said I write like the author of Under the Tuscan Sun. I looked her up, hoping to find a passage of hers. Instead, I found her age—85—and a photo of her short white hair, which instantly reminded me of my grandma.
I like being compared to someone famous. It gives me this “I’ve made it” feeling. Not success in the money or notoriety sense, but in the sense of hitting the mark. Writing what’s on my heart, with specifics that paint a detailed picture and sweeping brushstrokes of the human experience—and having that land, having someone resonate—that’s all I need.
It’s brilliant to reread my own writing. To revisit moments later feels like being a stranger experiencing my experience for the first time. When an old post gets liked, I’ll reread it, curious what sparked a connection. Some I’ve read a handful of times, caught between wonder at being the reader and pride at being the writer.
I feel that same way as a mother. Working with Evelyn on something—tying a bow, swinging a bat, breaking apart numbers to reach ten before adding—it’s like snapshots clicking into place. I’m both in the moment with her and also an observer, filled with pride at her conviction, growth, and quirky twists.
And now, as I sense this post coming to a close, my mind floods with ideas of what I need (and want) to do. Like a classroom of students waving their hands: “Oooh, pick me!”
—No, to the root beer float. I already had two Oreos earlier.
—No, to watching a movie. That’ll eat into my reading time.
—No, to an audiobook. I lost my privileges after falling asleep during the last two.
—Yes, to the one not raising its hand. You—schedule and send out client notifications for the week.
So: a book and scheduling clients are my top two picks. And that feels like a dang good way to burn out the fire of this day.
Alrighty, I’ll see you here tomorrow.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 