I rarely, if ever, write about myself. But having given in to the peer pressure (or peer "suggestions" and "encouragements") to start a blog, I am told that blogs are mainly about yourself, your thoughts and such. After reading the entertaining blogs of some of my friends, I can only hope mine will be at least mildly amusing. If not, well, then I've just wasted a few minutes of a reader's life, haven't I?
Nearly all the writing I do, creative, or, well uncreative, is not about me. It is about poetry, God, Paul in Corinth, Shakespeare, bookstore owners, trumpet players named Brad, fictional creatures, animals, or sometimes fictional animals. I have probably never given you a story, typed in so many words, about my own life. Neither of my two novels was autobiographical in any way, and even my poetry is about other people, or about ideas,or about whatever I feel like. This lead me to conclude that writing a blog about myself would be different, only maybe not so much because I tell people a lot about my life. Even if I don't mean to. If you read this, chances are good that you know quite a bit about me already, and I have informed you very casually that I made a blog, which you're reading because you are curious or bored.
It has come to my attention yet again that there is something about practicing a song a million times that manages to eliminate most of the eagerness with which I play it. Such is the case with Carol of the Bells. I am playing that song tomorrow in our church's Christmas service, and no longer do I think upon hearing it "Oh, that's a nice, cheery Christmas song." I think, "Oh, it's that song that makes my fingers shake by the time I'm playing the end of it. I'm going to avoid it at all costs until next year." But then, on the other hand, there are a few songs that I could, and pretty much do, play constantly that I NEVER get sick of playing. I don't even sigh a little bit in that exasperated way when my pinky strikes the first note of "Linus and Lucy" from Charlie Brown. I smile and my fingers hop vigorously, spanning at least 60 of those 88 keys. However, one unintended side effect of playing the piano is that many people often falsely assume I can sing. I shake my head as I look at those unsuspecting souls that have (thankfully) never heard me sing--questioning me as to why I don't sing with the worship team and urge me to lead them in "How Great is Our God" or something once in awhile. The ability to read music does not equate to the ability to sing it, at least not for me. Of course, when I play the piano alone and no one can hear me, I sing along, happily and out of key.
There, I did it. I wrote a blog about my thoughts. And should probably go practice Carol of the Bells a few more times. If I read this later and discover any grammatical errors, I will feel like a part of me has just died.
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