Valentine's Day

Well, a year ago today, I was in Oxford, England drinking tea in a pub, reading Jane Austen, attending an incredibly romantic concert without a date, and having ice cream with friends. It was glorious. I remember it was the first Valentine's Day that I did not spend the whole day being depressed about being single. It was quite an accomplishment particularly since all of Oxford was decorated with hearts and pink and cute couples. However, it happened. And it was a lovely day.

This year, however, instead of bemoaning my singleness, I am missing the person responsible for my not having the title of 'single' attached to my Facebook profile (if in fact I decided to put it on Facebook). So instead of drinking tea in Oxford, I'm drinking tea in Wisconsin. And while there is no concert in a 200 year old concert hall for me this evening, I do get to electronically converse with that one guy, which is quite fun.

I promise this blog will not become a long lament or anything. But it is Valentine's Day. So, I get some leeway, right? I really do not enjoy those laments, so I assure you, this will not become one of those.

A Way With Words (or Lack Thereof)

I really wish I was a better writer than I am.
I'm not saying this to invoke sympathy or reassurance, but I'm simply acknowledging the fact that I cannot write as well as I would like.
And I think it's partially my fault.
I really should practice more so that when I actually do have something significant to share with the world, I'll actually be able to wield the words I want to use.
Part of the problem is feeling a bit overwhelmed by the vast storehouse of literature already available and I wonder about the importance of my own contribution.
However, this thought has been faced and dealt with by authors and English majors since those 'titles' came into play.
I'm not a great poet, my essays lack spirit, and I've only written a couple stories, and having studied some literature, I have become very aware of the ginormous amounts of writing that is simply shifted aside to make way for the 'greats' (predominantly Western, well-educated men).
Not that I've minded reading those books, but so much stuff is accidentally ignored and forgotten, that I sometimes wonder about the importance of my personal contribution.
I suppose I should practice and write things regardless of who will or will not read it.
And it is somewhat arrogant of me to assume that something I write could impact someone else and be remembered forever (pretty sure I'm not the next Shakespeare).
But isn't that what books and stories are for?
To impact and change the way people think?
To bring light into dark places?
Maybe my stories could do that, maybe no one will ever read them but me and my computer, but I guess my excuses are somewhat lame and I should keep writing simply because it is important and good practice.