I used to have a blog where I wrote about writing. Craft. Book reviews. Book news. And I discovered that after writing fiction the last thing I wanted to do was, well, write about writing. So I avoided my blog. Gave it the cold shoulder. Humming (being constitutionally unable to whistle--now why is that? Must ponder that one sometime) tunelessly to drown out the whining nagging and increasingly strident voice of my neglected blog calling to me to update it already. So I taught it a lesson; I deleted it.
But I miss it. (oh, the perversity of human nature, never satisfied! And any minute now it will think it wants a cookie, which it DOES NOT NEED.) Then a writing friend of mine (the best kind of friend to have) suggested to me that I blog about my crankiness.
Crankiness? you ask, what the heck. No, really, crankiness...not cranky as in crabby (ok ok so maybe a tiny bit crabby, sometimes) but crankiness as in crank. As in the little lever that turns things. The niggling little issues of life that turn one's crank and set one's blood simmering. Not boiling, just simmering.
AH, let the crankiness commence!
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