What a Noob...

Sooner or later, you just have to get out of your own way and start typing.

I am 44 years old and have never had a computer of my own, until 5 days ago, when, on Christmas Eve, I opened up Lily, my sleek and shiny lilac colored beauty.  I name things.  My Truck (Big Larry), my new toaster oven (Monty, because it's the machine that goes Ping!), even my children.  So when I gingerly took her out of the box, and gazed upon her, I said quietly, "Lily," and that was that.

My firstborn accused me of naming her that because I am mildly obsessed with Eddie Redmayne at the moment, and he portrays a woman named Lily Elbe in the film, "The Danish Girl," which I have been watching nearly every day.  Because that's the other thing I do.  I find something I enjoy and sort of love it to death. And I am particularly bad (?) about this when it comes to movies.  I am firmly convinced that if I just watch one more time, Lloyd and Harry will get on that bus full of swimsuit models, Count Almasy will make it back to Katherine in time, and Auntie Em will hear Dorothy and let her in that blasted storm cellar.

It never happens.  But I keep watching.

And that's a problem.  Because, at 44, I am tired of Watching.  But I am sort of terrified of Doing.  As I told a dear friend just this morning, I am actually quite afraid of most things, and I grow weary of it.  Fear is exhausting, and I need no help in that arena.  I can wear myself out just fine on my own, thank you.

It takes energy to talk yourself out of success every single day.  It takes years of perseverance, honing one's practice of self-deprication to perfection.  And a lot of alliteration, apparently.  It takes real dedication to convince yourself that you've gone as far as you can go and no one is a bit interested in anything you have to say, and also you're too old, and you have no degree, and no training, and seriously, just go watch another movie.

Then the Universe nudges me ever so gently --- HAHAHAHAHAHA --- I am kidding, of course.  The Universe, as most of you may have noticed, this year, has given up nudging and has taken to beating us squarely about our heads, vigorously and repeatedly.  And so, after years of my mother and my husband (and several other people, who shall be blamed later), suggesting that I write, they presented me with an ultimatum, wrapped in pretty Christmas paper, sparkly and shiny and with her own pet mouse:  Lily.  And, after 4 days of walking into our office to Set Up A Blog Account, No, Really, I Mean It, Here I Go, and then walking right back out without doing it, I read that Richard Adams had gone on without us.  He wrote, "Watership Down," a book that never loses its magic. And he didn't become a writer until he was 57 years old.

FINE.

So, here it is, a thing I wrote.  Mostly an introduction, to what I have very little clue.